A gibbous waned, the moon's diminishing shine piercing the clouds racing past overhead, as
a birth was being staged between two towering mountain pine trees.
A mother pushing against the trees, fingers digging into the bark, face straining in pain.
The flotsam escaped; I dropped like a stone falling onto a pile of fallen
leaves and pine needles gathered together, ensuring a safe landing.
A first fall, a possible first concussion, with many more falls ahead.
While I don't remember any details, some thoughtful relative snapped a Polaroid picture of
the tiny fallen angel's arrival. And as uncomfortably embarrassing as it has been to
see that picture repeatedly, for many years now, I would not have believed a word of
this birth story without it.
... the above was read to you by an A.I. generated voice; my words, its voice.