Here, in the trenches of desire, the birds sing loudest. It’s almost deafening, their incessant secret communications. What could they be saying to each other? Especially at this ungodly hour?
It’s curious that at this time, the little winged creatures and their orchestrated song sound more like warning alarms telling you to get out. It’s worrisome to be able to hear them now. Unlike throughout the rest of the day when their song is just that – music apparently emanating from the ether, from whence they come – at 5 in the morning they signal something altogether different, like chanting rituals and warring drums.
Like an omen, they are, foreboding the coming of something terribly and perpetually true: Another day of Struggle.
And yet, at the same time, in their calamitous tiny expressions is captured the very antidote to this curse: Their Will to be Free.
Incredible how all-consuming such tiny creatures can be – these myriad lighthouses to our opaque lives.
And, yet, all I can selfishly think about their song is…How does their freedom compare to mine?