Tell me the words dear bird.

The street lights are still out from the night. An eery darkness clings to the concrete snaking through the gardens as a chorus of birds whistle from behind leaves. Seagulls squawk in the distance. An ambulance momentarily disturbs the picturesque scene, then it is gone again.  I should sleep, I should try, but those musical notes the birds sing out tantalise me to stay. They sing of love and I listen as though it were the first time my soul had understood such a concept.

Karen Hayward ©2016

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