Tumbling, spiraling downwards. Forlorn feathers trailing behind the now soulless earth fodder. Its colourful plumage giving its last dance to the sky, red, black, and grey. More is the pity that its heart had stopped mid flight and such is the nature of death. Selective not by any conceivable human mean; merciless, yet just.
In the flurry of the creatures downfall, at its central point of gravity, there is a fixed point in time. So fragile in its structure and surly to be decimated once it strikes the dirt. For these moments it is still whole, still dancing, and a part of unseen memory of time.