At six-twenty in the morning, every morning, waves of birds fly from the north shore of the lake to the south shore. Depending on the weather, they will fly high or low--cloudy, low; sunny; high--and they chirp in these great whoops: chirooop, chirooop, chirooop...
After having spent five, six weeks on the road, I needed to wake up to those birds once more. I needed to see their whirling, dipping waves cascade across the sky. I needed to know that they would still be there when I returned.
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