Silence rushes back in, so absolute it leaves a bruise. The branch, now bare, sways gently. You pull your hand away from the glass. Your fingerprints are the only thing left on the window, and the air, for the first time all afternoon, feels empty. You are alone again. Just you, and the echo of a million wings.
And the sound. God, the sound. It is not a song. There is no melody, no soloist. It is the roar of the collective, a single, sustained note of now . It bypasses the ears and speaks directly to the ancient lizard in the base of the skull. Danger , it whispers. Safety in numbers. Run. Or stay and be consumed. enjambre
Then, as if a switch has been thrown, the hum changes pitch. It rises. The beard on the branch shivers, loosens, and explodes back into a cloud. The enjambre lifts, a torn piece of shadow peeling away from the world. It drifts over the fence, past the neighbor’s chimney, and dissolves into the haze above the treeline. Silence rushes back in, so absolute it leaves a bruise
