Little birds tussle under the magnolia, wings flashing like sparklers on the 4th of July. Is it love or war?
Bird sings, chest puffed, melodious notes traveling from beak to ear. Bird doesn’t care who listens or doesn’t. Bird preens, wallows in the birdbath, takes care of self, minds its business, flies away from trouble.
I wake to the sound of seagulls laughing, they float against the sky riding currents from another land. The air is moist and smells of the Gulf, memories of sand and waves.
Pink Amaryllis nods its heavy head, Sword fern rustles and waves in the breeze, Quaker parrots squawk their way across the sky. Good Friday morning.
We watched for the return of the birds. The air around the house was silent and devoid of flutterings, a vacuum of tweets and whistles. What straggling flowers were left went hummingbirdless while twigs and string were just twigs and string with no hope of sheltering featherless offspring. It was strangely quiet, as though they … More Wingless