the singing bird

Paris claims to be a green city with a park in every arrondissement. Despite this, animals avoid the city with the best of their ability. Unlike the greens in London, the closed backyards of the city of love do not have squirrels running across the sandy path or a small rabbit hiding in the bushes.

This morning, when reading the news online, listening to BBC World Service and drinking coffee I heard a strange sound – a bird singing. I put my mug down, turned of the reporter and listened. It really was a bird. I wasn’t imagining things or going mad. There was a bird singing outside.

I listened. I wanted to open the window door to the balcony but being afraid of scaring the singing diva away.

For few minutes I could imagine sitting on the steps of our old house, leaning on the veranda door, and reading the daily news in the morning sun. Or in our summer cottage – a peaceful retreat – where waking up to the song of birds was an everyday pleasure.

Silence. Police sirens. Road cleaner.

The bird was gone.

I wonder if it will ever come back.