When have I heard the trill of sweet western birds last? A pleasure long forgotten.
Now I live in the lands of harsh sounding screaming birds. Every morning, it must come from their innermost hearts, they send out their loudest piercing shrill towards heaven, as if to greet dawn. As if to wake up the world. Then they fly through dawn’s early colors, circle the trees as if in love with their nightly resting place. As if weaving a spell over their domain to stay safe and to still be there when they’ll return at dusk. Then they disappear for the day.
They return just as the light turns grey. The first shrieks seem to assure the flock, yes, our trees are still here, come now, come all, lets praise the day gone by and settle in for the night. Then the air is filled once more with loud harsh shrieks and screams, hundreds of throats screech and croak, endlessly, loud, until the last one of them found its nook in the heights of the trees. All against the blackening sky. Finally they ruff their feathers as if having a bath and the rest of the world can go on with life. The nocturnal anyway.
Not a trill, but a thrill. Often I find their white feathers, young fluffy ones and ones ready to be used as quills, underneath the mighty gums.