32

January 6, 2024

This morning the crisp air is disturbed by the kiskadee song, a neighbour taking out the trash, a rooster crowing, a weed wacker off in the distance. Inside my father stirs and mutters to himself about this or that as he gets ready for work. This morning I am sober and happy and anxious and alive.

If you watch, not even closely, you’ll notice the birds flowing and flocking to an unwritten, unspoken, yet organised music. A code of ethics and behaviour. One perched high, another low. A squabble, a swap. Overlooking this patch of earth or that. Trading, negotiating, fighting, screaming to the high heavens, and yet unable to break free from any of it.

And in this precise moment and in this exact space only I am aware that we have gone one more time around the sun. The birds are oblivious. They, too, do not wonder what it means that one less rotation remains.