(no subject)
(Drabble, written in UWA while hearing the birds.)
From the open window I can hear the birds singing in the bare-branched trees. I would think it was spring, if I didn’t know that the calendar said November and I hadn’t worn a winter coat to school this morning.
There were buds on the trees along West River Drive when the sun slanted across car windows and into my eyes. Much of the grass is still green.
Is it autumn, I wonder, or springtime?
Now it is like a limbo-world, where it could be more than one time at once. The seasons scatter across the air -
I can see the birds flying.
They are pretty, though I see only sillhouettes. They way they chirp reminds me of little children; the way they can’t sit still makes me think of playgrounds.
I love them.
I don’t know what it is that makes me love them; perhaps because they are happy.
I’ve never seen an unhappy sparrow, a miserable chickadee, or a morbid blue jay.
I would like to be like them, I think. I know the reason for their happiness is a small-sized brain, miniature as fits their size, but I don’t care. Children are happy for much the same reason - they don’t know any better.
I will not be the one to disillusion a little child. Let them have their dreams and sunshine laughter; time will disillusion them on its own.
I think, perhaps, it will not surprise anyone to know that I have a love for children, also. It makes me happy to see that there is still innocence in the world.
From the open window I can hear the birds singing in the bare-branched trees. I would think it was spring, if I didn’t know that the calendar said November and I hadn’t worn a winter coat to school this morning.
There were buds on the trees along West River Drive when the sun slanted across car windows and into my eyes. Much of the grass is still green.
Is it autumn, I wonder, or springtime?
Now it is like a limbo-world, where it could be more than one time at once. The seasons scatter across the air -
I can see the birds flying.
They are pretty, though I see only sillhouettes. They way they chirp reminds me of little children; the way they can’t sit still makes me think of playgrounds.
I love them.
I don’t know what it is that makes me love them; perhaps because they are happy.
I’ve never seen an unhappy sparrow, a miserable chickadee, or a morbid blue jay.
I would like to be like them, I think. I know the reason for their happiness is a small-sized brain, miniature as fits their size, but I don’t care. Children are happy for much the same reason - they don’t know any better.
I will not be the one to disillusion a little child. Let them have their dreams and sunshine laughter; time will disillusion them on its own.
I think, perhaps, it will not surprise anyone to know that I have a love for children, also. It makes me happy to see that there is still innocence in the world.