One is a bird, two are the trees, three is the wind in the leaves
Wirt holds out the scissors. Beatrice lands on a nearby branch. "You'll have to cut them off for me," she says, spreading her wings. Wirt nods, then gently sets down Greg and his frog, covering them with his cape. "Please, do it quickly." Beatrice shuts her eyes tight. Wirt takes a step forward and opens the scissors. Taking a shaky breath, he cuts off her wings.
Four are the stars, five with the moon, smiling down upon thee
There is no blood, there is no pain. Just the softness of feather down, and a feeling of spreading warmth, then it's over. She holds out her hands in front of her and stares. "Oh Wirt..." She jumps forward to give him a hug, and he returns it before releasing her.
Six are the fish, seven the reeds, brushing the soft-bellied breeze
Wirt picks up Greg and the frog again. "Goodbye, Beatrice."
"Goodbye, Wirt."
Eight are the roots, firm in the ground, deep as my love is for thee