"The feathery rounds boasting, music as their speech, hold their tongues when we arrive. It is late and the forest is dark. The musicians are asleep, high up, a room with a view, We all settle in, beaks are nestled back onto chests, sleep. The humans miss day break and wake, to a kalideoscope of little songs, whistled by the tiniest choir. Perhaps they are our angels with wings, singing us back to peace."
