"may my heart always be open to little/ birds who are the secrets of living..." ~e.e. cummings

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

~ e.e. cummings



I woke up this morning at 6am, before the sun arose from her golden chambers to ride her red and pink beams' chariot across the sky. I had been dreaming of my Mosta, my beloved lovebird who passed away just over two months ago now. It was so realistic in my dream: his character was perfect, his chirps and his neediness and his expression and his lovely yearning to be close to me - it was all there... and then someone in my head or in my dream or who knows what told me to accept that he was gone and that it was no longer the way it had been... And that basically hurt a lot and I figure that's perhaps why I woke up at 6am... missing my bird.
I would love to tell you that the positive thing about waking up so early is that I got to sit on my couch in front of my huge window, eating warm toast and drinking milked tea watching the sunrise... but dark blue clouds hid away the mistress sun, and I could only catch mere glimpses of her vibrant cloak from behind the fluffy smokiness of the foreground.
I walked to school listening to The Swan and thinking of my Mosta, and when I crossed the river on the overpass I stood leaning over the railing, looking down at the water and its wilderness. There are so many interesting birds here. There are at least two different types of yellow ones - I've mentioned this before without so much detail. Some are the colour of buttercups, others are more the light shade of a baby chick. None are quite the vibrant yellow that my Mosta was, but as I looked down at all the different types of birds living their little birdy lives by the river, I noticed each had a unique personality, and that is what makes them so precious! A few of them were standing on little stones that peeked out from the river's waters, and the birds would dip their beaks into the cool stream and then lift their heads on an angle to let the water drip down into their bodies. And again. And one little bird liked to displace the others. He would fly right on top of the stone where another would be standing, and that bird would have to fly away because there was not enough room for more than one, despite the small sizes. There were robins, too. They looked so large next to the other sparrows and yellow ones. And there may have been a pigeon. The pigeons here have finesse and a ladylike beauty. They're prim and poised... not like those fat, ungraceful ones that eat garbage off overpopulated city streets ~ although they too have their own unique allurement and charm.
One thing I've noticed about the birds here compared with in Victoria is the lack of crows. They simply aren't around, whereas in Victoria they abound! Interestingly enough, there are London seagulls, or, as I call them, far-from-the-sea-gulls. You might not believe it but a little part of me misses those black-feathered birds with their confident struts and their indifferent caws. And the swallows... possibly my favourites, with their fearlessness and their amazing speed and agility. They slice through the air with their sharp wings and they are so daring and free, and it seems to me they fly not just because they can but for the pure enjoyment of it.

Some day I'll fly with the birds...