Drifting slowly, always slowly, the petals fall, for speed is a stranger to the pink-tinged whispers that float down from the magnolia tree. If the skies of dawn had eyes, then the clouds that blossom in palest rose would never fade to cotton white, for they would be entranced by this dance of death, the most beautiful kind. Upon a twisted branch, songbirds trill a cheerful tune, and the skies, still aglow with pink and gold, begin to weep a drizzling rain at the discord of such soaring melodies. Silenced by the fragrance of dampened earth, the birds huddle beneath the curtain of petals that fall as rain droplets do. The tepid beads bedew the feathers as each crystal fragments into smaller ones, and for a single lilac morning, the feathers and the petals are not so different.