The lyre bird
When silence makes his way next to me on the narrow path, I let his arm brush mine, and I stop singing with the birds. So, in the vast forest filled with songs and rustling, silence and I follow our path to the edge. Two tranquil strollers, meditating on the ancient voices around us. A sudden breeze caresses my cheeks as we progress towards the clearing, blue with fine yellow rays. On the moss, curled by the heat, we sit. The lyre bird comes near. Standing in front of us on its long legs, it rests on us its inquisitive eye. This skilled singer, realising perhaps that it is disturbing a solemn moment, displays its decorated train and mimics our silence.
|
5
favs |
491 views
11 comments |
121 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
Translated from the French text "L'oiseau-lyre" - Same author.
Other stories by Erika Byrne-Ludwig
Tags
This story has no tags.
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
I love the use of sound and silence in this piece!
Thank you, Agnes.
What Agnes Ezra Arabella said.
So observant, exquisitely so.
fine piece, very much evoked scene.
Thank you, Dianne, and thank you, Ed.
Lovely.
Many thanks, Gary.
Transcendent.
Thank you, David.
One of the nicest pieces I've read of yours. Simple, clear, with lots of fine images.
Nice comment, Eamon. Thanks.