Where The Birds Lived

Great writing

THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY

Jim sat at his kitchen table. The laminated fake pine sucking the heat out of his cup of tea. He could hear the first bird of the day tweeting in the tree outside, he didn’t know what kind of bird it was, or tree. The early bird catches the worm, he said in his mind. There was no point in speaking out loud.

He stared out of the window. The sky was empty; streaks of cloud lit by the distant sun floated like a pink undercurrent on a dark lake. The streetlights were still on, the orange glow rising in the distance like a false dawn. His eyesight wasn’t good enough to see the individual street lights far off in the distance anymore. He remembered looking at the patterns of the street lights. If any blinked he wondering what the name of the street was that had the faulty light…

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