You can only hear them before the city stirs, when it is still tucked in bed denying the dawn, the greying night pulled over its ears, its skies still empty of its contradictions. You can hear them speak the words that you swallowed, the words that wouldn’t come, the words that lingered in the air long after the storm was gone.
They’re not really singing, you know, Marcus. Probably whinging about the rain or plotting vengeance over broken eggs. Or simply swearing at the wind.
But the inability to comprehend something automatically elevates it to a level of profundity or mysticism or power. Or thoughtless beauty. Why let it hold a mirror to your ignorance, when you can incapacitate judgement.
But listen, maybe it is an primal shamanic song that every bird knows, about a secret lake far away in the mountains where the fish come out to dance on full moon nights and the wind whistles a tune that makes the maple cry, until…
Easy, isn’t it?
only the river, only the river