I saw to the burial myself, it was only right. So much time together in the garden. Even when it was too cold for me, there she would be out working, checking. The ground was near frozen when she went under, worms were nowhere to be found. But it was him I worried for. Plumed pepper-black, white streaks salt on his face – striking is how I'd describe him. You couldn't mistake him for any other. Birds of a feather, always together. Come spring he will look for her, find an empty nest, broken, unfixed. And what will he do then, poor thing. Will he re-enact the years, sing, strut, all for her no longer here. Or will he, purpose lost, stop. --- Maxine Rose Munro writes in both English and her native Shetlandic Scots. She is widely published in the UK and beyond, both in print and online, and her work has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. You can find more about her work just here .