Knuckledragger

I had a dream once.

A dream of a dying bird, black as night, eyes heavy with the fog of evening.

That bird, it flew with guileless grace, a massive importance, to the sea. And when it got there, it landed upon a piece of driftwood. As it stretched its wings, it spoke in the voice of a child, profile backlit against the midnight sun:

“I need a cereal.”

It darted its head about, to see if anyone could answer its statement. It then continued:

“I need a cereal that tastes like freshly baked cinnamon bins, piping hot from the oven.”

It then cried a single tear, and flew into the ocean, knowing it will never know such beauty.