Since dawn, the dove’s melancholic repetitions have haunted the air. Melodies from childhood, oh, please not that. Some memories I can feel in my body like a bruise. Mothers walk by with their little ones, and the dove keeps singing. A mockingbird starts up on a branch nearby:—it’s call and response: the pitiful piping of the dove, and the giddy exuberance of the mocker. Their music is a clairvoyance. Who knew I’d be whistling by now? Who could have guessed I’d be singing such a happy song?
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