Melancholy Thoughts on a Rainy Day

by - 1:22 PM

I am scared of the day when the birds disappear, when the song of the lark is gone.

When the natural beauty of their sound is overrun by the modern and artificial noises of beeping electronics and blaring car horns.

I am scared there will no longer be people who remember that there were olden days, that there was a time when the thick and wild Druidic woods stretched for thousands of miles in tangled, crazy beauty. When deer and berry bushes weren’t merely suburban accessories - when the birds sang.

I am sure we will always remember the widest canyons and the highest mountains and the deepest seas. But who will remember the ordinary woods, the ordinary sound of birdsong? What use is there, they will think.

The heavens and I cry for the birds, tears dripping from both our eyes.

Who will remember the random birds perching on the treebranches? Who will remember the way they sweep in great sheets across people’s front yards - their very last line of defense, their last plea for acknowledgement.

Someone must be ritual witness, someone must remain who remembers them. For I am scared not only for the day when we cannot hear the sound of the birds - but we forget what they sound like.

And decline to care.

Raindrops drip from the heavens and we weep together. We weep for the memories that are already dying.



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