The Last of the Misshapen Cranes

To what shall
I liken the world?
Moonlight, reflected
In dewdrops,
Shaken from a crane's bill.

---Dogen

It does no good, this failed origami. She works with a quiet urgency, practicing the delicate folds until her fingers are sliced bloody. Her words, for all her best efforts and intentions, arrive on his doorstep as hopelessly deformed cranes. They flutter and flap so desperately before him until even their noble hearts are lost in the twisted, mangled mess. He never sees her visions of pale wings spread gracefully to reveal downy undersides adorned with soothing calligraphy, words upon words that detail everything she’s ever known to be true. Believing she mocks him, he breaks their frail necks and arranges them in his garden, creating grotesque yet artful displays for the passersby. It matters so little which is the greater cruelty, that which is inflicted without intent or that which lashes out to defend itself. It is this realization that firmly quiets her feverish hands. She crafts one final crane, silent as snowfall, to mourn the passing of the others. It is the last of its kind. Its neck is unbreakable, for it is a ghost before it is even born.