Early on this rain certain December morning
inside this silence I rest into on the hillside of vacant holiday houses, I
ponder the silence in which birdcalls went from ear to fingertip to ink-nib.
Alleviating calls of tiny garden birds loop and lift above solemn susurrus of
the sea. Honeyeaters, wrens, they make no two notes the same, lilt and drop
above water’s surf continuo, long consistent comments all their own. Olivier
Messiaen sits on south-facing slopes upon five-lines of continuous
transcription, where there is mainly whatever calls he wrote in that moment he
wished to quote, then send on.
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