Волны

           Inthegardenthebirdsthathadsungerraticallyandspasmodicallyinthedawnonthattree,onthatbush,nowsangtogetherinchorus,shrillandsharp;nowtogether,asifconsciousofcompanionship,nowaloneasiftothepalebluesky.Theyswerved,allinoneflight,whentheblackcatmovedamongthebushes,whenthecookthrewcindersontheashheapandstartledthem.Fearwasintheirsong,andapprehensionofpain,andjoytobesnatchedquicklynowatthisinstant.Alsotheysangemulouslyintheclearmorningair,swervinghighovertheelmtree,singingtogetherastheychasedeachother,escaping,pursuing,peckingeachotherastheyturnedhighintheair.Andthentiringofpursuitandflight,lovelilytheycamedescending,delicatelydeclining,droppeddownandsatsilentonthetree,onthewall,withtheirbrighteyesglancing,andtheirheadsturnedthisway,thatway;aware,awake;intenselyconsciousofonething,oneobjectinparticular.

           Perhapsitwasasnailshell,risinginthegrasslikeagreycathedral,aswellingbuildingburntwithdarkringsandshadowedgreenbythegrass.Orperhapstheysawthesplendouroftheflowersmakingalightofflowingpurpleoverthebeds,throughwhichdarktunnelsofpurpleshadeweredrivenbetweenthestalks.Ortheyfixedtheirgazeonthesmallbrightappleleaves,dancingyetwithheld,stifflysparklingamongthepink-tippedblossoms.Ortheysawtheraindroponthehedge,pendentbutnotfalling,withawholehousebentinit,andtoweringelms;or,gazingstraightatthesun,theireyesbecamegoldbeads.