Between Bear River and Beaver Creek, in the shifting light of dawn, a Red-winged Blackbird calls, seeing the morning, and plays the same whistle for the sun that it does every day.
A Blackbird knows time. It notices the color of the leaves, thick against a branch. It does not remember heavy snow or the color of blood.
This is not redemption or forgiveness. For war, for murder, we get neither; at least not right away. This is only the sweep of time over a place; the realization of a natural world that is absent in judgment, slow in retribution.
For more flashes prompted by this image, and to learn more about flash fiction, visit Madison Woods and explore the Friday Fictioneers.