Ambrosia In April

A perfect golden sunset casts arboreal shadows on the houses lining the street. The breeze moves the limbs of the trees lazily about. They’re all shimmying and dancing. It’s Friday night, and the trees are feeling breezy and bright, drunk on that golden sunlight. If we opened the windows again, we’d hear the birds still singing about love. The love of birds is a grand thing, the way they sing about it. They croon their dreams of a nest and a life together with fat worms for their babes every morning.

Those are the songs we’d still be hearing if we hadn’t shut the windows to prevent the doors from banging shut and open again like something thumping around on the deck of a ship. I don’t mind it, that bump, bump… bump! Arrhythmic drum line under love bird melody. I prefer it over the endless whoosh of ceiling fans, artificial wings rotating endlessly, dispersing the air before I can breathe it.

Give me the moan and creak of the window frames expanding and contracting with the natural heat and cool of the day and night, the boom boom of doors slammed by the breeze, the last few strains of an avian melody as the full moon rises and the golden ambrosia is spilled, drains down driveways and evaporates into shadows while the leaves rustle. That is living. That is true.