Just Squawking

“They’re so beautiful!”

“What?”

“The birds! Little black spots blinking in the sunset, all red and orange and blazing. It must be amazing up there, the wind in your feathers, the sun ahead, a world below you like a living map. That would be wonderful, don’t you think?”

I blink, lick my dry, cracked lips. Darkness, that familiar shroud, pulls me close. Her voice, an excited, romantic lilt, melds with the distant honking until I struggle to distinguish them. It feels like she’s distant too, and I’m alone again. It’s just a bunch of squawking to me. Nothing but squawking. 

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