You remember, dear Robert, old owl, that when they migrated months ahead of schedule that particular year, they left behind a pasteboard parrot in their wake – a collective gesture meant as a kindness, surely, but who could ever be sure? Meant perhaps to soothe those whom they'd fled – who could blame them? I did not – and left us alone in our clapboard house, left our garden chair beneath that tree, slumbering in old, abundant solitude. What did those many birds mean by such gestures of leaving? You said, although you might not have said it in just these words: Birds only partly succed in fulfilling certain half-finished thoughts and half-made promises, since, now, aren't we reminded once more of how silent and colorless the world can be without them in it? Whereas the breathing world may feel their absence, we feel the difficult presence of their not being in the quince, or under the eaves or on this windowsill.



excerto do conto "For Brother Robert", de Bradford Morrow em A Convergence of Birds - Original Fiction and Poetry Inspired by the Work of Joseph Cornell


a 15.3.13
Etiquetas: , , , ,

 

0 comentários: