Such a beautiful sound,
for the birds to cry out at.
It's been awhile since they last painted for me.
Spreading wings like brushstrokes that dot the clouds as if they were born to percolate through them.

Plant

I love my new furniture. I'd always been too worried about spending too much. I can really stretch my legs in-between these walls. My family thinks I chose wisely.
My house is missing the western sunset, and I can only seem to get so much sun. The rain here isn't the same.

Plant

Crimson. It's always the beginning of the song. It sings itself in my head when I drive. Sometimes I sing along if nobody is in earshot. My youth wonders if the trees will hear me if my wheel slips when nobody is around. The sound would be so loud, I imagine.

Plant

Maybe it's the feathers floating down, or the pavement brushstrokes. The sounds are so pretty out here, where I'm no longer in earshot. Am I too far into the echo to come back?