[ Birdsong erupts. It wheels, not doves turned stars escaping from stars turned hunter, but swifts on cutting wings. An ancient auspice — an omen, a glimpse of the future offered in a flock of birds. Except they disappear around corners, into darkness, slamming into hosts and collapsing into blood and paper, only echoes left in their wake.
But they are here, tirelessly. Whistling feathers always just out of sight, always just within earshot. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
↓
But they are here, tirelessly. Whistling feathers always just out of sight, always just within earshot. ]