The Cuckoo’s Falling
A siren, a gentle, distant, whoosh as something falls rapidly from high. The thud that follows. Sounds screaming and bellowing and pulsating through the night. A city that never sleeps, a million stories that are yet but one.
Everyone in the city is on the move, no one stays still for long, and all of them headed in the exact same direction. The ultimate goal, not always desired, an own-goal in fact whether sought or not, the final terminus, as each of the city’s key moving parts ricochet apart, and the bits that were us are spread out into an eternal void.
The endeavour of life, it can be concluded, be summarised in a few parameters: reproduction; growth; respiration and so on. This can be pared down, however, to one overarching and unavoidable truth. If something can die, then it has life. And everything that can die, will die.
And as I watch this cuckoo falling for a fleeting moment I am struck, the bird swoops today, and I swoop with it. I am no more.
Today I wrote between 23:08 and 23:18. I was prompted by an idea here.
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