At home: The silence of the song thrush

This is where I found it. It laid where it had lost flight. It hit the window. We ran outside to see if it could to be saved, nursed back to health in a make shift box by the fire. No, It laid still. Its neck broken. It was instantly gone.

Moments before, it was a performance artist. Intricate notes crafted into a short repetitive tune and it was repeated. The song drummed into your subliminal consciousness. You weren't listening per say , but were comforted by the flute like usual calls outside in the morning. Nothing repeats a tune like a song thush, so you would stop and think who is that on that wire? Everybody has, I think.

It had, I guess already impressed another with its new tune and found a mate, or perhaps in the process of devising new notes for the coming spring and the mating season. Life ended. The song sadly silenced. x