I remember a day. It was April, where I was dreaming on my bed, looking out to a sky that was neither cold nor warm, but soft-washed pink- the hue of season's change.
In the tree where the branches twitched and leaves fluttered, unmoving sat a blackbird, regarding me silently with one eye and his small yellow beak pointing to the west. We passed some time this way, he and I, both looking at each other. Time was not, washing over us in this motionless exchange, save for the slow snap-shut of eyelids, the rise and fall of my chest, heavy with an aching heart and was all that seemed to exist, as our pupils fixed to other in keen, sharp focus.
Silence. Silence. Pink silence.
At a swift start, his small yellow beak opened up his head and sang out to the sky, a staccato of shrills, perforating a peace we had created and lost, suspended in a pink April evening.
