Sonar

The sun has barely risen. Outside the scren door a palm tree cuts my view of the pale sky in half. Faint feathers fall like bottled messages wandering aimless space. The birds echo sonar through the tre tops. I’ve never needed to know what they were saying. It’s their secret language and I believe there’s a reason we humans have never figured it out yet. We cannot conquer the world, we can only listen.

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