William H. Stutz
(Translated by Mike Stutz)
I wake up at the end of the night just before daybreak. Incidentally this has been happening to me frequently. Nothing I do helps me to go back to sleep.
The sounds of the night were no different. The dawn is sometimes noisy.
This evening there were no crickets and not even Benjamin the frog that lives in a pipe amplifying its froggy sounds his living wanting to appear bigger; the eco can terrify other animals.
The first to sing was the chalk-browed mockingbird sadly alone. It seemed like a small bird in the cage, but not so, only alone. Melancholic.
Longing for the dawn, is worse. There is no remedy, nor consolation; it does not pass; it becomes larger, grows with the night and greatly enlarges. Spectral and cosmic longing. Grim memories.
A sound far off of a bus on its first trip makes the background to the darkness. The mockingbird still sings alone.
A little later young birds famished in their nest sing out of tune with much commotion in their nests pleading the mother to break the fast – infinite hunger.
The sound of little parrots arriving in bands covering themselves in the honey of arapuá bees in the shade of the tree in the garden. Every dawn this green/feathers repast is repeated and the bees pass the rest of the day rebuilding what the parrots destroyed. If it was September other kinds of parrots with there colors and songs would be in bands in the guava tree.
No sound from the roosters. Happily the noise of humans is always rare for these bands, even though always from far off and later.
The urban sparrows in idleness cheep in confusion. Red lights can be seen behind the trees, a weak light enters the room.
Finally the day begins. Children, showers, the smell of fresh coffee, sleep smiling faces of a good morning. The beloved kiss in tender and reinvigorating passion ritual.
The dawn is sometimes noisy, a divine sign, straightens that we are alive, emotions/ passions/ loves, enchanted unique, our eternal feelings.
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