We just quiver when the breeze is upon us and that has them flee scared. The memory of their fluttering and the ephemeral beauty of birdsong is but too faint. Soon they vanish and only silence and still solitude remain.
What an irony though, as we dress in elegant finery: worn-out bright-coloured jerseys, shabby jeans with long hems. The smartest of us boast pointy straw hats.
Yestereve Luna brought me her Sunday shoes. I shall leave next dawn; I know she will keep a secret –she’s such an adorable lass–. Upon my comeback, I will give her long white nightingale plums in return.