Standing in solitude on a granite rock lying among the supple grasses on this hill is a singing bird. He is no bigger than a laugh, no smaller than a smile, as light as air with black diamond eyes. His song is a cascading ripple of sound played on a silver flute, and the notes fly on the light breeze up past the treetops, lifting through the dissipating storm, over all the hills and then the mountains where stars gather at twilight to relay the notes of his song to shooting stars. His feet hold him to the rock even as his heart is inclined to lift with the song straight up the winding contrails of perfume.
Soft breezes run across the grasses and strum them in rippling waves of shushing air and then climb up into the emerald and peridot oaks. Just like they had six hundred years ago, after six hundred other birds sang their spring love songs, budding for the two hundredth time, the oaks waved and bent lightly, motioning with their arms for more music, applauding and wondering when they'd ever heard such loveliness ever, ever before. And it was always so, these trees, this rock, and this bird and his song.
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2 comments:
Where did the Google ads come from? They seem incongruent with the content of your blog.....
"...and soft petals are floating down with curling contrails of delicate perfume winding and bending, playing like a dancer's hands."
Ah, I love that sentence! The word, "contrails" is used in such a delightful way with "a dancers hands." I was a little sad to see it twice; it seemed so uniquely right in its initial appearance, like a luscious first kiss. The second kiss had the edge of habit, as if the one behind the kiss had tried it before on another... The way you used "contrails," it spiraled like "nautilus" and I didn't once think "trail of a heavy jet airliner."
Springtime is so lovely. A time for lovers of everything beautiful in the whole world! ss
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