birdsong - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
At the dawntide the manor roof was alive with the compendium of the birds, for in their song was their rich emotional intelligence told to anyone capable of real listening.
The kitchen table cools my palms as the warm brown hues rekindle my soul on this and every day. It is the steady companion to the aroma of freshly baked bread and the birdsong that flutters in from the garden beyond.
The birdsong was the river of the air, a flowing music that hydrated our parched souls.
Into the gentle airwaves they gave their song, those tiny friends of feather that adorned the sky.
Birdsong comes sweet and high, the soprano to the other sounds of the daytime. I feel them as auditory smiles and expressions of joy, those communications of the birds.
Through my bedroom window comes the brightness of the dayshine, that boldness that lifts my spirits. The chorus of the birds drifts in as steady ocean waves, only their melody is dancing. In a moment the tune can fly so high and resettle, an auditory version of how they play upon wing. I move toward it, feeling the light reach my skin and my eyes adjust to its brilliance. I let reach out with my hand and lean on the white gloss frame, notice the subtle pattern on the glass of raindrops that came and dried.
Here comes the birdsong, the laughter of our winged friends. I listen to the melody - rising, swooping, resting, just as birds do. Every movement that is so natural to them is reflected in their tune, the way they turn their heads with gentle precision, hop upon branches and dive into the garden air. It is their orchestra and opera, a salutation from above as we naked bipeds walk below.
The birdsong comes as jazz, softly floating and free; notes never written dancing as steps never taught. Each sound-bouquet came as a sculpture, one that can only come from soul born to an infinite horizon, never tainted by the cruelty of a cage. Perhaps that's why Ella loved it so, for she knew joy when they sang it, she knew joy was possible in the world.
Birds trill, sweetly high, the chorus as playful as the birds themselves. With closed eyes, I imagine their music to be colours, painting stairs in the same way grapevines grow - this way and that, in a beautiful chaos that isn't quite random. In the calm of the day, my heartbeat is the steady drum to their melody and I seep into the moment, allowing myself to climb those rainbow stairs.
Through the percussion of the rain comes the birdsong, each a music to the other, together an opera only nature gives. The sweet melody is the heart of the bird, freely given. As our work is our love made visible, so this song is theirs, flowing into the air. There is something about it that brings deeper breath into my lungs, brings my own heart to a steady rhythm. In that moment I am so thankful with everything that I am for a sky full of birds and chance to be alive.
The birdsong drifts as well as any summertime pollen. It comes as magical as any flute, as improvised as deep south jazz, and as soulful as love's kiss. In that moment I am present, feet still and heart open.