Sliding song

The sky is as clear as a lightpool, and people are participating in the motion of the day feebly, in their polluting cars, poor things, they do not know any better. Trucks, buses, aeroplanes. As though our bodies do not move. As though our bodies do not shine and loop and unbound and fly. The cherries are the blackbirds in the dawn chorus, that stretches for hours like a ballerina who cannot get tired. Their song starts at the top of the sky and slides down to the boughs, and it is that sliding sound that gets you, that makes you feel somehow giddy, larger, and more capable, than you thought.

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