My father had a pond made, three beautiful ducks swim in it.
The duck is brown, the ducks white.
The cuckoo sings, I hear it.
The hoopoe too.
I go into the pasture to give their hay to the horses which come up from the valley with a nonchalant step.
The sky is overflowing with cries, songs, chirps, like great bursts of laughter.
It's spring, the pasture like an earthly paradise, a Noah's Ark.
Heaven, really?
The big crow watches me in the walnut tree.
His female next door, a little smaller, hugs him.
There is no difference between male and female crows.
Both are called crows.
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I know their couple well, since always.
We grow old together.
They must be my age.
A common raven can live a hundred years.
They lodge in the poplars by the river where they have set up their tribe's dormitory.
We were friends.
We are no longer.
We talked often.
I know their voices, rrok-rrokk.
Like humans, birds are...
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