“I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears and what they think”
The first days after moving into the new apartment I caught myself standing at the huge windows, looking out onto the mountains and waiting for the birds.
They came frequently, sailing in a huge flock right across the piece of sky visible from our living room windows. They didn’t seem to be merely flying, but to be mounting the rough winds like sailors seizing the stormy waters of the unknown. Keen to dive down towards the streets and sail high aiming for the sun.
My steps lead me higher, onto the flat roof, on which laundry dries when the sun peaks out and on which little groups of chimneys hold their smoky conversations with each other. Towards the evening, they were flying again. The birds, which seemed to circle merely around our apartment block. I watched their path in the sky, their reckless formation flights. And suddenly, they landed. On the roof of the house next door. I walked towards the rim of the roof, wondering, and a young afghan men waved to me. He was the owner of the birds! He was the one to leave them out in the days. The one to feed them and to wait for them once they had enough from their air acrobatics.