Today I celebrate birds, which have been singing so happily around me lately that I just have to whistle back. And sometimes I call out “upupa” to the hoopoe since this is how it is called in Italian (and Latin) after its call.
Prompt 13: “Write a poem in the form of a news article you wish would come out tomorrow.“
The Age of Silence Today’s news from Slovenia: Disintegration of Yugoslavia is not finished. (Really?) Peasants have had it. (Revolt again?) “I killed them because they got on my d...k.” (Says triple murderer.) At the wedding bridegroom’s mother discovers that the bride is her long-lost daughter. (I had to read it twice.) Perhaps I should be like My Big TOE guy in the book I’m reading (it’s his Theory of Everything and he calls it non-fiction), and alter my level of perception so that time ceases to exist and I’m able to read the news in advance and get rich by betting on winning horses as in that old movie It Happened Tomorrow. But what I really wish to know is not what happens tomorrow: The news I wish for is how decades from now, after the incoming long and impenetrable Age of Silence the early morning calm is broken by a little tweet.
In photos: all the birds from around here that my camera could catch this year plus one lost bro at the end. The first four are oldest, taken in January and early February by the Orbetello lagoon, to where I must not return due to different municipality.
The Eurasian hoopoe (Upupa epops) is in the three photos towards the end. It was first spotted in February and after that I keep seeing and hearing them daily and there are many. It is a spectacle in flight but for that I’d need to take a video. That one photo I managed – and it was not easy since it’s mighty fast on take-off – shows nothing of its magnificent feathers.
Other names I’ll be merely guessing. Just call them Fabrizio, Sara, Francesco, Elena or Mario.
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2019):
Little witch There is no shadow without darkness, there is no shadow without light. She lives on the border between the two. Where the shadows are. There is power, fear, ease on the edge. She moves along it, making baby steps in one direction and then the other. Darkness pulls, light wins. White is natural, black is omnipotent and therefore scary. The first time she is tripping is also the last time. She feels so powerful that she doesn’t know how to walk without flying off into the falling snow. She has men sitting on the floor before her telling her secrets, asking her opinion, crying. She steps back into the shadow towards the white light and writes from there. Her pen is at the ready and so is her pan in case a monster enters her shadowlands in need of a good thrashing. Some say: “Go into the dark. Write out of anger. Explore the negative.” She says: “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”