Birds flying in groups around the office


I usually see, when I am at work in the morning and paying attention to what is going on outside the window, or just happen to be gazing out of it, a group of birds flying in roughly circular patterns around the office building.


Now it is near nine in the morning and there they appear, the birds of nine o'clock: winging, scintillating, wings fluctuating, seemingly a bit like sine curves; curve-like wings, over the far off and whitish fields.

And again at 9:07, winging high in the distant sky in a shifting collection, some birds a bit up and some a bit down; they look so free, an image of freedom? How do they feel? Have they it solved, do they need nothing, are they free? Do they have a yearning, not just the yearning for sky (for that is their world), but a yearning for something else, beyond, now for them impossible, or something inexpressible?

9:21 : here again and closer, gone quickly now, after looking like small speckles as if peppered on the light-filled yellowed clouds on the Simpsons' light blue sky over the left side of the warehouse; gone now, lost to sight, anyway.

9:22 and nine 9:23: another and another smaller group pass?

Ten fourten; sweeping above like a squadron of bats into the blue blue air. Very swift they are.

Something older from this year's spring from Parukářka Park.

Above, the blue; around, the succulent, undeveloped green of spring, small leaves and buds, so firm, delicate and yet strong, untrammeled like the multi-foliate hearts of lettuces; around, the brilliant light and between, the almost neon-fluorescing leaves scattered in veils and pompom-growths on trees; a pure choir of still-winter trees, bare silver branches adding a purity and seriousness, a lovely contrast to the filled with vibrant and good and warming life growth of those trees that had sped to meet the uncoming spring more eagerly or quickly than the rest.

I lay in the grass, my head comfortably against the concrete of some sort of low, oblongular ventilation shaft of what I assume, from what I have heard, is some kind of bunker under the park. From the shaft  one could smell a delightful musty smell, a deep, earthy nostrilant from the comfortable bowels of the shelter, but only if one sticks one's nose practically right up to the grille. Lying in the grass, your nozzles would be lullabied only by the rough friendliness of the concrete and spring, the cleanness of grass and earth and air, ba*breathed out by the park.

So, I was lying here, lookin' (kong) at the changeful light on the robust, lapidary, yet tender, spring-shoot leaves of a tree above me. Mostly the light filtered from above, from a hard, firm and blue sky.  A delicious green-yellow translucence through the leaves marked them out in their delicacy, outlining their veins and ridges, illuminating them with rich colour, almost flash-like. The sky and the leaves were both so sonorous and chromatic, so bright and more over of the same quality of light-bursting brightness that, where the edges of both met they sort of fused together, giving rise to something that caused in me the impression of a kind of dividing, raised ridge between sky-edge and leaf-edge, as when two plates of gold rise to form a holy-seeming suture of awe-inspiring, electric power, two iridescent metals touch and their kiss causes a brighter frill of gold, magical, electric, a purified, more-than-they hem or suture.

Twice I saw dogs rolling in the grass, something I had never seen them do before. They got down own their back and with legs comically, stiffly held above, they rolled for all they were worth, grinning with lopsided, floppy jowls. And when they had got up and punctiliously, with an air of preemptive embarrassment following their bosses, they must have found they couldn't bear the thought of not having just one more roll and down they went again, almost chortling in delight (as I imagine), rubbing their hard, whip like, backs in the grass and earth. Were they doing it out of the satisfaction of it being spring, of feeling earth and smelling grass?

As I was lying there, soaking up the wide blue flank of sky and those particularly bright, poignant leaves, I suddenly felt a ripple, a surge, the impression of a parting of waters, of the invasion of a lover's kiss, and into the bright blue sea of the sky there surged the straight white, foam-leashing arrow of a plane, high and small and ever so sharp, twinkling in the white, rarefied light. It was spectacular and beautiful. The impression given was totally physical; I could feel the parted foam, as if the blue goddess's foamy lips had been parted.

*ba is a prefix meaning that a metaphor is being used more metaphorically than usual, the park was not really breathing strictu sensu, but poetically, which is understood anyway I guess.

Miles and miles of flimsy veil-like, diagonal, perfectly slanted and spaced slashes of frosting, so friendly and so friendlyly blue coloured.   condensed packed water, so beautiful
  riding high over light coloured innerlitlike (like! only like?) sky, light filled early weraly morning sky, I don’t know even if the sky sun is up, but somewhere behind hills or buildings it probably is, oh yes, brother, this is it.

Light trep ida tion of rain out the wind ow. It has been rain ing, how long I do not know, I have been look ing at the comp uter, but then I saw it, a trembling little need led silver move ment, silver frott age rap id move ing in the air outside bet ween the wind ow and the opp osite store house, dark gray, light sil ver, slivers so thin slim down dash diag onal.

Diag onal dash of rain, so many tons (? (Does it make sense to ask how much at all, beyond poetic convention and use?)) of water fall ing sp read out in long rinn els of drip drop fast dash dash flows, strai ght tremble ing on the flow, grey firm curt ain of large tonn age rain, flutt ered by turbu lence, begg ining the race amongst the clouds, long fall down mil es of air to be earth drink, drop melt diss olve into loam amongst foam of other fall ing drops, same nejtš ure.

Czech English Alphabet Poem without W.

ejbísídýíefdží ejčajdžejkejelemen oupíkjůestýjů víexuajzedd.

The grass

There is some frost in the garden
- of paradise?
- of delight?
- just so?

Alphabet poem

Abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.

Five letter recombo poem.

Howpr ivele dged I amtos eethe fresh unsee nunsu ngmor ningq uickc hangi ngpom elopa thway samon sgtth eicys hoals ofclo udupo ntheh orizo nunse ensol itary purew ander ersdr iftso ffast movin gclou dsobe autif ulfor their unobs erved hushr ush. Tosom ewher eandt odiss oluti onand atone nessN otthi nking justo bserv ingen joyin gRoll ingth rough thesk iesov erthe floor ofthe world.

Šestipísmenková překombobásnička.

Jakpri vilego vanýse cítímb ýtževi dímčer stvéne opěvov anésko roniký mnepoz orovan éjítr orychl esemění cíúzké stézky letade lbarvy kantal upůmez ihejny mrakůu obzoru Nespat řeníos amělíc estova telétá hnoudá ljakop osouva jícíse mráček