lemon moon

I listened at the dark wood`s edge. All colours polarising to straw and ink. Above, in the southern windy cloudiness, a small, bright blurred half lemon moon. All the wood`s bird singing said the sun was leaving.

 

It was like I`d found myself in a large echoey school hall. The windows open, letting in shafts of warm light, releasing wood varnish smells. The wind in the spruce tops a russet rustling beech hedge surrounding the hall . Its roar a protective wall of sound.

Birdsong like scatterings of small children, each having found his and her own private space - in the middle, at the edges, in the corners, to better hear and be heard . Every one of them - oblivious to its neighbour - in animated talk with an invisible parent, who is at home or at work or far away.  

Twenty or fifty small piping voices. Each private communion following its own ebbing, flowing wave . Jabbering excitedly;  telling a long rambling story;  standing still,  listening intently. I felt their happiness and their young yearning.
What a projection onto a dusk chorus !
Maybe my heart was remembering summer evening soundtracks, old as time;  when I was small and never far from home.