The Hunting Party
Birds sweep through the garden. Small chirping birds. In the thicket of sage, on branches of rose, under grape leaves, on spent pumpkin vines. Hopping, they advance. A gentle wave, singular birds, a flock. They sing a song without melody. All else falls silent and still in the cool predawn. I sit with mug in hand. Three kittens huddle close together, watching through the screen.
The world is hushed by the happy inhuman music of the birds, washing from one end of the silver lighted garden to the other. A subtle procession. Mystical avian parade. A tuft of sweet alyssum catches my eye, and I recall that the fields of my childhood were full of this flower. When I asked my father its name, he called it a weed. He did not know.
With the passing of this recollection, the birds trickle away. One fat bird remains among the pumpkin vines, silently searching a leaf for prey. We hold him in our rapt attention, the final note. He flutters away. We can hear them chirping and flitting among leaves beyond the fence as their hunting party advances through the tiny enchanted backyard forests. They brought eternity with them. It lingers on us after they depart.
The brevity of forever is stunning.
Please “heart” this post if you liked it so that more people can discover Jellied Gold on Substack. I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Oh yeah, and if you haven’t already…