Birdsong The mornings, this morning, the trees wear quiet like an old coat, soft, worn thin. The air holds its breath, waiting to stitch its seams. No raven’s rasp, no owl’s midnight wisdom lingers in shadows. No quick percussion of the woodpecker shakes the hollow heart of the pines. Yet the sun, unbothered, still spills over hills, still tips needles in gold. Wings will kick up dust once more, stirring the quiet into melody, a promise unblinking: nothing ever is truly lost. The birdsong will return a day soon. All those aloft know the art of rising resides in the will of resolve.
Angelenos Smoke twists like forgotten dreams caught in the ribs of a gutted skyline, the bones of yesterday aching in the light. But from the blackened ground, a seed stirs—a quiet defiance. Not all stories end in cinders; some begin there. The air hums with a new kind of music, a beat stitched together by hands that refuse to stop building, by voices that crackle but do not break. Where fire ran, there is now a pulse, a heartbeat louder than ruin. Steel will rise where it once melted, and shadows, no longer feared, become merely the space where light has yet to bloom. The city, like its people, finds its power not in what it lost, but in what it dares to imagine. This is how we are. Not survivors, but sculptors of what remains.
