Here’s my response to the Prompt: The Bird. I’m not sure if I didn’t leave enough time or if it was too much inside my head but I’ve not had any other bits of prose or poetry from this one. So, sadly, all you have this time are my words.
Here we go.
Patterns are forming in the droplets of water. Splash cold and run hot.
Two opposites make something new between them. A surface shapes,
a shape surfaces from the mist. One little songbird. Sing along.
What we see in the steam shows what we are thinking. A fortune told as the water burns.
It rolls down and over our skin, trickling to pool at naked feet and flee away again.
All we have left are the fading birds we saw in the steam.