As he sits, birds begin to flock over. First in ones, as they hop over to the spilt ground they peck and caw in the orange dusk. More small black shapes flit through the skyscape as he reclines with his head in his calloused hands. Finally a flock, arrowing and angling through the defeated light sink to the darkened ground with uncommon certainty; a oneness that is sleek and beautiful.
He sits, and they sing. They sing to the darkness, and the gasping trees; to the long swaying grass and the supple breeze which seems to flow over their number like a quiet hymn to their chattering inconsistencies.
The sun hangs. The trees see blackness once more, and the wind howls and vanishes. Darkness is here again. Now no one will see him until the morning.
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