1984

           Themusicwentonandon,minuteafterminute,withastonishingvariations,neveroncerepeatingitself,almostasthoughthebirdweredeliberatelyshowingoffitsvirtuosity. Sometimesitstoppedforafewseconds,spreadoutandresettleditswings,thenswelleditsspeckledbreastandagainburstintosong. Winstonwatcheditwithasortofvaguereverence. Forwhom,forwhat,wasthatbirdsinging? Nomate,norivalwaswatchingit. Whatmadeitsitattheedgeofthelonelywoodandpouritsmusicintonothingness? Hewonderedwhetherafteralltherewasamicrophonehiddensomewherenear. HeandJuliahadspokenonlyinlowwhispers,anditwouldnotpickupwhattheyhadsaid,butitwouldpickupthethrush. Perhapsattheotherendoftheinstrumentsomesmall,beetle-likemanwaslisteningintently—listeningtothat. Butbydegreesthefloodofmusicdroveallspeculationsoutofhismind. Itwasasthoughitwereakindofliquidstuffthatpouredalloverhimandgotmixedupwiththesunlightthatfilteredthroughtheleaves. Hestoppedthinkingandmerelyfelt. Thegirl’swaistinthebendofhisarmwassoftandwarm. Hepulledherroundsothattheywerebreasttobreast;herbodyseemedtomeltintohis. Whereverhishandsmoveditwasallasyieldingaswater. Theirmouthsclungtogether;itwasquitedifferentfromthehardkissestheyhadexchangedearlier. Whentheymovedtheirfacesapartagainbothofthemsigheddeeply. Thebirdtookfrightandfledwithaclatterofwings. 

           Winstonputhislipsagainstherear.‘NOW,’hewhispered. 

           ‘Nothere,’shewhisperedback. ‘Comebacktothehide-out. It’ssafer.’ 

           Quickly,withanoccasionalcrackleoftwigs,theythreadedtheirwaybacktotheclearing. Whentheywereonceinsidetheringofsaplingssheturnedandfacedhim.