The fog had burned off now and she could feel the sun penetrate her skin and warm her bones. Tiny bands of warblers and finches flew by, alighting on the slender branches of the willows and stopping to drink in the teal-colored pond in the center of the grounds. The wild crocuses and beds of tulips had disappeared. Their absence cast into relief the faded bouquets that marked the graves of those whose deaths were still meaningful. Husks of yellow daisies, irises long-bled of their ruby glaze, pallid bunches of carnations with stems dry as straw, all looked somnolent and doleful, limply bowed as they were in their rigid brass sleeves.
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