A haibun for the OctPoWriMo prompt, followed by its erasure.

I stand in the meadow feet in the sun, damp grass and dormant spring flowers, and I listen. Sun on face, listening to birdsong, the quick furtive rustle in the dry brown leaves of the hornbeams in the hedge, I stand. All this furtive fluttering, tender singing is me, and each brutal lash leaves a raw welt on my skin.

Thunder cracks

something dies in silence

feather drifts earthwards.

Meadow

spring flowers

birdsong

rustle in the hedge

this is me

a raw silence

drifts.