loralye

Every morning the sun is conjured up by birdsong. Trill, chirp, clack, flap. The rustle of old palm fronds in the gentle breeze is like death, cackling softly. Palm skin hangs like old mummy bandages and the birds sing louder, insisting that we are alive and this sunrise is for us. Wake up now. Wake up. Shed the shackles of sleep. Sit on Life's chest like a cat and suck out its sweet breath. Love child, born of twilight and fading stars. Clever changeling. Soon come.