At the crumbling edge

At the crumbling edge, where the earth gives way to the sky, the birds in the air seem to stop mid-flight, as if someone is holding them in place by the wind. Someone built a wall of decomposing leaves,  deciduous rot. It is waiting to be pushed into the abyss below.   

I could see a small black dog burrowing her nose in the fragrant duff.  Did she know just how close she was to the edge? 

Overlooking the small black dog is a girl. Her hair is black, like her heart, and long like the river below the crumbling edge.  She has an anger inside her that only she can satisfy.  She looks into her heart and wonders if dogs can fly.