The counterpoint

My window overlooks the main street. It’s temporary because my real bedroom is under construction. I wake up with the resumption of urban activities, the increase in traffic, the multiple uproars that are not in any way protesting.

This noise doesn’t bother me much; I have a deep sleep and snores to anyone who wants to hear it my desire to remain unconscious.

When, at last, my spirits regain their air and thus rise to the surface of the day, my ear immediately catches the counterpoint of a bird, perhaps a female activating around its nest, maybe a male in difficulty to reproduce.

The singing is simple, a descending melody, intertwined with more or less regular variations.

Cars go, trucks rustle, children scream, engines choke, doors slam. And then, a relative silence, the bird’s notes quickly drowned again by an ocean of sounds.

Is it not more beautiful certainty than to be silent to listen?