The Women Who Write Birds
(after Eliot Weinberger)
There are women who write birds into existence. They sit at the edge of ponds, where the water is half memory and half reflection, and dip their brushes into silence. Every line they draw trembles with wings.
The older woman writes first. Her birds are cautious, hovering near the surface of her thought, as if afraid to leave. They resemble the ghosts of mornings - light, disciplined, almost transparent.
The younger woman watches then imitates. Her strokes are rougher, filled with impatience. She does not yet know that wings are not made of freedom but of repetition, the same gesture done again and again until it forgets what it was for.
Between them, the air thickens with colour. The birds they write do not sing - they breathe.
When the women rise, the paper dissolves. The pond returns to water. But the birds remain, circling a slow orbit between what is written and what is.
π π π π π
Process & AI Diligence Statement
Content co-created using ChatGPT (for text and concept development) and DALLΒ·E (for watercolour-style illustration). Curation and creative direction by Kathy Warde for Quillshadow.
