a morning in April…

Mine was an impoverished neighborhood that knew more of crime than beauty. But standing alone above all, one bird was a choir of the ephemeral with melodies altogether unreasonably beautiful, the essence of improvisation. Seeming without end, each new song related to the last by way of the inexplicable – this swollen stream, this timely shelter, this fine theft of a morning in April. It took all I had to gather myself and return to my day. As those moments passed, I knew I couldn’t hold in memory what I promised myself never to forget.

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