Forgotten

I forgot the blackbirds song. I heard it, beautiful and precise, repeating a crystal clear fragment of a melody. Singing it back, I thought it would stay in my head. High up on the telegraph pole, the top of a totem, perched against the dawn. Perfect black, delicate and bold, swooping, carving through the hedgerow. He kept his call. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow I will return. His melody had been replaced with the siren calls of invisible skylarks. Darting sounds in the air. The pheasants klaxon cutting the mist, distant green woodpecker, a single magpies chatter. All the other voices, a scattered chorus through the fields.