Birds at My Window

The sun rises from the mountains in the east and falls back to sleep with the hills in the west, yet the birds at my window never fret.

They play with each other, flying among their kind and the clouds, singing songs all day though even if the nights get lonely I’ll listen to every tune they share until the moon and the stars lull them to sleep and suddenly.

They stop.

And suddenly.

I replay those tunes to myself until I’m lulled to dreamland as well.

I’ll miss them in front of my window where I enjoy their little free lives, however I’ll miss them more when I am far.

For now, the moon gets tried and with her army of celestial wonders they’ll pull away my blankets - and the world’s deep navy one - as the sun meets with us again. And again. And again...

And again.

And every day I work in front of my window, doodling on pages on my desk, on my hands or plain white paper ready to be bleeding with absurdity, listening to music I feel is written about me, leaving me exposed to the silent world, thinking of meanings maybe I’m too dumb to think about and smiling each time the birds near my window fly by.

Or chirp me a song.

Or flutter their wings as I think they’re waving at me.

I don’t feel so lonely, not anymore, not with the birds at my window, not at all.

I wish I was a bird, I think most of the time, though I know the dangers that could bring, predators and hunters, people that like their melodies but not them as one being...

However being that bit of feathery speckle through the wide and open and humongous sky would very often remind me that what I’m worrying about is even smaller than I. Even smaller than the trouble it is causing me and my head.

The birds at my window continue to sing their songs as I hum among them to melodies I used to know.