Extract from the diary of Helena Birch:
How does the morning sing?
From the throats of birds.
And if the birds do not sing?
Then morning has no voice. Is silenced. Rises without sound from the east, pouring light across the horizon, careless as spilled milk. And that delineation between dark and light is a tear across the sky through which daytime falls, unencumbered. The new day. Fresh. Untouched. Like a virgin bride, dressed in white clouds.
But not singing.
If the bride of morning does not sing, is she unhappy?
Dare we ask the birds? I wonder if they know they are her voice. If their silence is the reflection of her sadness or the cause?
Silence is a reflection of my sadness.
I have no voice to sing. I am a featherless bird. Stripped of meaning. I stand naked before the mirror and will my flesh to sprout. The mystery was once how. Now it is why.
I wish the birds would start singing.
I think I have lost myself with their song.
Perhaps I will find myself in Almado. We arrived here at midnight. Crickets sang in the grasses then. That droning, high-pitched screech of legs scraped together. How it grates at my teeth.
I tire of tents and tightropes. Could this, in fact, be why I have lost my feathers? My beautiful feathers. I am nothing without them. Nobody.
Assumption and Avarice have perfected their pointe walk across my tightrope.
I could leave tonight. Let them remain in my place as the star attraction.
Fly even without feathers.
© Ren Warom 2014