Birds made of stone reside at the base of a long forgotten grave.

I imagine they were real birds once.

Birds that lived and live on, preserved forever in the moment they alighted, long, long ago on soil bogged and thick with tears.

Birds mired in grief that was too fresh to tread upon. Grief that solidified their hollow bones, made their hearts and wings too heavy; made flight impossible.

Birds that envy the sky and those who are weightless soaring above them.