Fall. Fall, I say. She doesn’t. She stays perched on her branch. Fall, I say. She does not. This ritual — the repetition is liturgical. A call and response in absentia. There is no rejoinder. There is no: and also with you. There is only silence and the absence in her eyes. Fall, I say again. She looks down where I stand. She looks away into the distance. I look. I see what she sees. Nothing there. Fall, I say. She’s like an unhinged censer rolling away down a transept. Fall, I say. And she jumps. I turn. I step away.
“My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That’s heaven. That’s gold and anything else is just a waste of time.”
— Cormac McCarthy