Fading Birdsong

Light fading in here, but despite the gloom I am loathe to turn on the light. Music is on low (Storm Corrosion's self titled album of quiet and melancholic half-lullabies) and it seems to replicate - almost replicate - the gathering dusk outside the window. This time of year is always heavy with nostalgia - I can hear the songs of wood pigeons - a bird whose sole purpose must surely be to instil nostalgia in the listener. If I look up, in the suddenly vast skies, the silhouette-flash of bird wings, a lonely-seeming flight. Where are they heading to now I wonder? Finding somewhere quiet to settle for the night no doubt. Some nest, I hope and imagine, in the bays of some unmapped, unknown wood, just north from here. There are other birds I hear now. I know nothing about bird song and species. maybe a thrush, or a starling. Some small and comfortable bird. It doesn't matter, because in the grey-blue of this light, it only sounds like one thing, and that is the past. Not necessarily any particular bit of the past, maybe not even my past - it sounds like a time that is gone, something that was probably never really here.