rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Morning's birds fluttered the air, drew fanciful patterns of flight, found the five wires and, alighting, arrayed themselves into a chord they sang. Then they dispersed, describing the swoop of branches and the flapping of leaves, tracing an invisible forest which entangled the sky.

Mid-day's birds failed to wake me.

Afternoon's birds dozed, or sought standing pools of water, or caught sparkling drops flung lightward by lawn sprinklers. They rustled the bushes and pecked the sun-warmed lawn.

Evening's birds watched the sunset, twittered, hunted early-rising crickets unwise enough to chirp, and ignored the cats who, in their old age, prefer their food less vigorous and served in a bowl.

Night's birds are emitting high pitched calls, as piercing as the white light of the nearly full moon. Now, day's birds are still and silent, sleeping, but the thought comes to me that, had my ears sufficient sensitivity, and were the other sounds of night stilled, I could hear the brush and woodland vibrate with their thousands of tiny beating hearts.
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