They’re a beautiful affair they are. White and gleaming against the angry rays of Mr. Sun, and at night they’re all glowing and reflective of the moonbeams, shining like that of a darkened angel. On the rare occurrence that you catch one, boy that’s a lucky thing. The feathers are as soft as a chick’s and the primaries are just the right size too, like a hawk’s. Oh, and when she flaps them, which she rarely does, but when it happens, they’re the most powerful things you think you’d ever seen in your life! Enough to tip Mother Earth on her side and blow out the Olympic torches in every city near and far.

    You’ll never see her flap them through,she’s too drowned in a big black abyss of depression. They always just hang limply at her sides like a puppy’s ears, droopily bouncing along with every step she takes, occasionally dropping a feather or two. Claims they’re a burden, she does. Thinks they’re just a disposable camera, just meant to throw away after you’re done. Doesn’t even bother saving the pictures; the memories, they’re all blurry anyways. That’s what she thinks, down in that deep dark hole she dug out for herself. I reckon she forgot to bring a ladder, because she never came out, probably never will.

     Of course, she can’t fly out, no not with that heavy heart of hers, weighing her down like an anvil. A drop of lead for every problem she’s had, for every heartbreak and death. So of course she can’t fly; not with that heart of hers.

    It’s quite sad, actually, seeing her and her tree. She’s always perched up on that one branch, just like a bird. The white of her wings against the pink of the cherry blossoms creates a beautiful combination of colors. That tree, dropped in the middle of a pine forest, looks completely out of place. You could see it from heaven, that dot of pink within all the green.

    She’s always perched up on her branch, wings down to the sides, no longer beautiful; but bruised and bloodied from being rubbed up against that sakura’s rough bark time and time again. No one ever comes to visit; they’re all afraid that she’ll kill ‘em. I don’t know why, though, because she’s never killed a living soul in her life! Everyone thinks one day she’ll jump from that branch, spread her wings, give ‘em a nice big flap and she’ll fly. She’ll be able to soar over the trees, the city, the river and the ocean. She could touch the sky. But only we know; me and her. We both know that she’ll remain landlocked for the rest of eternity.