She should leave it. Nature was cruel, and she had learned not to meddle. But the ibis dipped its head, and she saw her own loneliness reflected in that tiny, wild eye.
It was not just red. It was fire. It was the color of every sunset she had watched alone, every blood orange she had peeled with trembling fingers, every valentine she had never received. The shed blazed with borrowed light. old woman swamp scarlet ibis
The swamp no longer held its breath. The frogs sang. The water moved. And an old woman, carved from river oak, turned away from the bank and walked toward a path she had not taken in forty years. Somewhere behind her, a single red feather drifted down and settled on the black water like a kiss. She should leave it
