As I look to the clouds a tear wells in my eye. The rain on the windshield pounds out the time; the fading rhythm of a dying heart. The cold permeates, I can nearly feel its icy touch on her limbs. Her time had come, I have been told. It was her choice to die. I cannot help but feel the pain as an ocean pours from my eyes. I ask myself again and again, How could she have known? Freedom to her had been the front room, it had all been hers to roam. But the taste of the air, and the cool mountain breeze, called her to her death. I think once again, It is my fault, I should have been aware. But there are those who tell me, No, she chose her time, it was her choice to die. To accept this fact is impossible; I cannot start to believe that she would know that the bitter cold would plague the evening air. Her long green tail, swishing in the grass, her tongue flicks in and out. She now resides in the eternal sun where all is wrought of gold. My dear Isabeau, your time was come, but still I blame myself. You wandered out in innocence, and I have paid the price. As I look at the clouds and feel the cold my heart grows heavy and weak. The rain pounds down on the thirsty ground and Isabeau drifts to sleep. Goodbye my dear.....