beauty, fiction, short fiction, women

5 Voices

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(http://www.deviantart.com/art/Bird-of-Ill-Omen-671706447)

 

‘We’ve been on earth all these years and we still don’t know for certain why birds sing.’
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim At Tinker Creek.

Their songs are strongest at dawn. They appreciate each day, compelled to displays of delight common to the devout or the drunk. My work invites my attendance, but it is one of the most exquisite experiences I have known.

Isn’t it beautiful?

Now this murder have been useful. They are not shy in offering their opinions. Take care when trading with crows, they’re quick to take insult and slow to ask forgiveness.

Toss them a handful of the rye, will you? Thanks

Now close your eyes. Feel their song in your body. It is a hum, so concentrate on it. The excitement you get when you meet a lover or get a good hand of cards.

What is it telling you?

Their syrinxes produce eighty notes a second, composed of two thousand elements and you hear it every day without giving it the slightest thought beyond the romance. It is a language we hear but ignore, although it is all around us, subtle and discursive.

OK, I will translate.

They use a warehouse. It’s in the industrial end of Yarmouth, where Nelson’s Column stands. Now, wait a minute because there is a lot to take in.

We must intuit, read them like soul braille. It resembles the structure of a raga.

To Sa Me Yi Wu La Hu Nu Gu Pa.

Keep your eyes closed.

You’re seeing it, aren’t you?

The additional frequencies resonate in the visual cortex.

That’s where they take the dogs to fight.

To Sa Me Fu Wu Nu Pa Ro.

I know how clumsy it must sound, but those root notes and words are the keys to power.

Saying them stabilises the connection. Keep doing it whilst we head to our next meeting.

Chuck them the rest of the bread.

We need more information. No, put that away. This is something far beyond the internet in scales of information.

Passerines are the best informants.

They’re prone to juvenile expression but they collect a lot of information in a short space of time.

Small brown birds that live near the ground. Sparrows, wrens, blackbirds.

They’re more focused than corvidae.

Crows. Jackdaws. The crows provide a stronger gestalt of information, an outline that the passerines fill in by sheer volume.

It is a different song. They have five different song, but we only need two for our purposes.

Aggression.
Alarm.

To Sa Mu Yu Wu Lo Nu Do Pa

Throw the bread. Keep the song inside. Let it ferment in the chambers of your heart. You have tapped into the most powerful network of intelligent information ever composed so pay it some respect.

You could try whistling but I prefer the fundamentals. It denotes respect.

You can see the men. Hear their voices. Their phones seep information and electro-magnetic energy. Packets of data that the birds collect and store without analysis.

Get out your pen and notebook. Write from what brews in your heart.

A name.
Names.
An address.
Addresses. Phone numbers. Email addresses. Passwords.

People believe themselves invisible. It is not God who watches us, but the Universe through a million pairs of eyes and in a million songs. They have taught me things.

The right questions to ask.

A right measure of persistence.

The right song to sing.

These four men are the organisers. They have dogs fight to the death and make money from it. We know where they are, and we know their names.

Ducks? Please, they’re worse than useless.

We have two choices.

You can use the phone and call in an anonymous tip to the police.

Or.

We can visit a group of animals who would relish the chance to punish such cruelties.

So glad you agree.

Now we need to stop at a butcher and a tobacconist. Get the car.

I want to stop and talk to my friends a little longer.

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