overture

Faint fluting notes of birdsong carried on the firstlings of morning. The birds are preparing to sing the universe into being as they have done every morning since the dawn of time. Shadows unfurl in the garden of my father. Living light wanders where it will. The branches shiver in a gospel dance. Warm wind ruffles my hair. Paddy Pup rummages in the hedge.
The ghost of Charlie Darwin appears at my shoulder.
"The birds are singing to mark their territory," he grins.
"I think you're wrong," I tell him softly.