The boy walked through the woods on a crisp autumn morning. The dried leaves crunching underfoot, the cold air burned his nostrils, the light seemed to be coming through rose tinted glass. If he stopped he could hear only quiet. It seemed to deafen and drown any thought or feeling that he might have. It was a tortured kind of peace. One which would not let you know any presence but it's own.
He saw the gray feathers peeking from below a pile of leaves as he approached a thick oak. He huffed the air through his nose as to purge the smell from his conciousness and paused. He summoned memories of breakfast, fresh eggs with garlic and onion and sharp cheddar, nearly burnt toast and strong black coffee but the quiet pervaded. As he stepped closer, he huffed once again. Even on tip toes the leaves still crunched. The wings were spread as if still in flight and it's coat shined a glistening white. A worm crawled out from the crook of the leg, a kind of nature's twisted irony and a lone ant perched atop the fuzz of the head as if silently summoning his compatriots. He walked quickly away with his sleeve still over his nose. Even out of the forest and halfway home he could still remember the eyes. Two tiny dark pearls, forever in between blinks, contemplating a decomposing forever.