Feather

The charred remnant of a feather floats softly to the ground, it's airy path undisturbed by strong wind or the slightest breeze. Silence has fallen over the city, in every direction you look there are discarded items of lives long gone – purses, bags, shoes; even the roof tiles of the many once proud standing buildings have chosen to loosen from their bonds and slip away to the ground.

Smashed glass litters the pavement, each pool of glistening fragments a mere memoriam of the cars and windows that once bore the winds and weather. For a brief moment you feel the warmth of the sun on your skin before it is once again snatched behind the sheet of perpetual cloud – it is comforting. Daylight is quickly retreating, and tonight will be a fresh battle.

Today? Today is just day 53.