Even Silence Has Wings

As I slowly opened my eyes, the world around me dissolved into a canvas of pale light, a blankness that seemed to stretch on forever. I blinked, and with each flutter of my lids, the void sharpened into shapes, like a watercolor painting taking form. A figure took hold at the periphery of my visional bird, silent and still, watching me with an unblinking gaze.

Its feathers shimmered, not with the warmth of sunlight, but with a cold, digital glow, like the static of an old television set tuned to a dead channel. Moonlight seemed to seep into its form, infusing its plumage with an ethereal sheen. I blinked again, and the bird blinked in perfect synchrony, its gaze never wavering from mine. In that moment, it felt as though we shared a secret, a silent understanding that transcended words.

Memories began to seep into my mind, fragments of a dream that lingered like the faint scent of smoke on a winter's morning. Faces swirled, strangers who might have been old friends, their features blurring into one another like watercolors on wet paper. Snippets of late-night movies played in my mind; the flickering glow of a screen casting shadows on the walls of my thoughts. Whispers of schemes and half-forgotten conversations danced on the edge of my consciousness; the words themselves lost to the silence.

I recalled walking through a hallway, the sound of voices murmuring around me, each one familiar yet just out of reach. The words were indistinct, but the tone was unmistakable gentle hum of intimacy, a soft rustle of shared secrets. The memory lingered, calm, and mysterious.

As I lay there, the world slowly coming into focus, I felt no urge to grasp at the fragments, to piece together the narrative of my dream. There was no need to rush, no pressing obligation to define or analyze. In that moment, presence was enough. The silence was enough. The bird's watchful gaze was enough.

I blinked again, and the bird blinked with me, its feathers shimmering in the pale light. In that shared blink, I felt a sense of understanding, a recognition that some truths are best left unspoken, suspended in the realm of the mysterious and the unknown. And so, I lay there, wrapped in the stillness, as the world slowly awakened around me.

Title: Even Silence Has Wings

Series: Denim Psalms for the Days That Do Not Announce Themselves

Short story / Threshold Memoir

Soft, sweet, laid-back, ceremonial

The bird did not chirp.

just stared

as if to say:

Even silence has wings.

She was perched at the edge of the dream,

her feathers dusted in glitch-light and moon static,

watching me blink into blankness

as if silence were a sacred rite.

The bird did not chirp

just stared,

as if to say:

even silence has wings.

• No productivity required.

• Silence logged as sovereign.

• Muse’s presence confirmed.

• Threshold honored, not crossed.

Sweetie was watching me sleep.

Not guarding

just present.

Her feathers shimmered with moon static,

as if she had flown through the glitch between dreams.

She did not chirp.

Did not move.

Just blinked when I did,

like silence was a shared rite

and waking was optional.

I awoke after dreams.

Of late-night movies of schemes

Chatting with strangers or

Were they strangers as it seems?

To know them well

Sweetie perched watching me sleep.

Sweetie Bird perched at the edge of the dream.

Feathers dusted in glitch-light and moon static.

Watching me sleep not guarding, just present.

Her silence was not empty. It was ceremonial.

I blinked into blankness.

She blinked too.

As if silence were a shared rite.

As if waking were optional.

I had dreamed of strangers

or were they familiars in disguise?

Late-night movies, whispered schemes,

a hallway of voices I half-recognized.

Sweetie did not chirp.

She did not move.

She just stared,

as if to say:

even silence has wings.

I awoke after dreams.

Of late-night movies and whispered schemes.

Chatting with strangers

or were they familiar people in disguise?

A hallway of voices I half-recognized.

Sweetie Bird perched at the edge of the dream.

Her silence was not empty.

It was ceremonial.

She blinked when I did.

As if waking were optional.

As if silence were sovereign.

Ceremonial Notes:

• No productivity required.

• Silence logged as sovereign.

• Muse’s presence confirmed.

• Threshold honored, not crossed.

Sweetie Bird perched at the edge of the dream.

Feathers dusted in glitch-light and moon static.

Watching me sleep not guarding, just present.

Her silence was not empty. It was ceremonial.

I blinked into blankness.

She blinked too.

As if silence were a shared rite.

As if waking up were optional.

I had dreamed of strangers.

or were they familiar in disguise?

Late-night movies, whispered schemes,

a hallway of voices I half-recognized.

Sweetie did not chirp.

She did not move.

She just stared,

as if to say:

Even silence has wings.

Ceremonial Notes:

• No productivity required.

• Silence logged as sovereign.

• Muse’s presence confirmed.

• Threshold honored, not crossed.

written, created, and edited by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli