birdsong raze i counted the sounds he made in clusters of two, lithe and laser-like. ten, then twelve, then eight. no pattern to the canticle that i could discern. the denouement: an impossible assemblage of twenty chirps, dipping in pitch until the last of them sagged into silence. the things i would sing if i had those lungs. 230425 what's it to you? who go blather from