There was a bird who sang to her every day, all hours of the day, through bright and dark, and the notes were flowing words she translated to paper. She accepted the gift but never considered that, like most gifts bestowed by nature, it must be tended carefully.
Temptations crisscrossed before her. New unhealthy hobbies were found that drowned (out) the bird’s singing. A sliver of cognizance recorded the silence.
Years passed. In moments when she gripped her pen and aligned its tip to paper, she waited for the singing, but none came.
Losses mounted, as they do. And then this one loss cut through the miasma enshrouding her. It split the shell and encased her in new glaring light that forced clarity. Her eyes could not close against the truth: the waste, years abandoned, gifts broken, trusts splintered.
As best as she could, she practiced repair.
A matter of weeks passed since The Loss, days since the consciousness. She opened her arms, like wings outward to catch the draft of air, and embraced her world: its creatures, its breezes, its rains, its songs.
Then, as she was doing nothing at all, she heard it–a bird singing, to her, loudly, rapturously. And in its trilling notes, there were words.