The Lark of the Dewbird contains scenes of death, abuse, ptsd, and other violent and graphic depictions of war. If you are uncomfortable with this, please consider another story.

     Perhaps, he thought, this was simply a hellish nightmare. Maybe, he wished, if he opened his eyes once more he'd be greeted by the smell of flowers and the sight of his dear wife, she which captivated him like a perch for a weary bird, or the brightest gemstone for the lowliest of kings. 

     He blinked; gunpowder filled his lungs. The grime held onto his boots tightly, restraining his leave. His ears had not yet tuned their surroundings, so the cacophony rung in a manner that no noise was heard.  

     Thoughts ran through his head; a river poured over him with imprecise notions of what may be and what had been. Surely, his mind resolved itself, this was his penance. A shout broke through the silence, and his eyes were lifted.

     "David! Get up, brother, lest you want to die!" He was pulled to his feet, and his body began to move without direction from the mind. The dance of life had begun, the struggle to survive that all creatures had built within them. David had long observed this melancholy rhythm with interest, but now his heart echoed the pace of his feet as he ran. So his body proved what his mind had neglected, his heart was sure: he wanted to live. 

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     A whistle echoed in his head. David knew what was to come, but he did not want to accept it. Defiant to fate, he grabbed ahold of his compatriot and threw them both to the ground. In a moment, his body was thrown off the ground and further onwards. Mud and blood covered him, and his entire body found itself incapable of movement. His ears rang; his eyes found themselves in a mixture of blood, tears, and dirt. He cried, "Oh heavens, please have mercy on me." An answer fell upon him.

     At first it had an asymmetrical pattern. A dot here, two more here, David was unsure what he felt. However, soon it poured with a rhythmic certainty as it washed away the dirt from his face. He looked up towards the blackened skies and found a singular speck above the war-torn fields. A blue bird sang such a beautiful melody; a melody which seemed to pierce through the cascade of rain and thunder of artillery. He cried, and the Dewbird wept with him.