I Hear the Birds Singing

The other day, very early, I went walking, and the landscape was like a French Impressionist painting. The dawn-light shone on the leaves of trees that have turned yellow, red and brown. Joyful was with me.

Even earlier, before that, I had come outside when it was still dark. The full moon, yellow with age and hanging low over the horizon, glimmered alone in the sky between shreds of cloud.

Somewhere between those two moments, I heard the birds singing.


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