And to the sky a host of our feathered friends took, their bandages falling as the leaves of seasons old. No longer did they perch upon windswept branches but instead made it with each beat. And so instead of a cold howl the air pulsed, wafted as if from an unseen concertina fan.
The birds in the sky danced for one another and we watched, the happy and appreciative audience.
The birds flew through that ever developing canvas of the dawn, as if their wings were fine quills, drawing such buoyant hues. Those wings in that sky became the colours of my dreams and whenever I needed a memory to lift me off the ground, they were there.
White heaven-bound birds were as brilliant rays from wind-dappled sea-water; their brightness amid otherwise infinite blue, gliding as free souls. In each wing-given arc they were the tips of a conductor's wand, a music for both eyes and soul, bringing a wave of sweet earthly joy.
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