malabar whistling thrush

Birds are not musicians; they are songs

White-Throated Kingfishers sound like a jackhammer in the hands of a jazz drummer. Asian Koels can be mistaken for star-crossed Shakespearean strangers cooing goodbye one last time. Black-Winged Kites shriek as though they are auditioning for musical satires. If the world was any crueler, music labels would hire poachers to hunt down Malabar Hornbills, and steal their summer playlists.

The most beautiful bird call I have ever heard belongs to a whistler in an electric blue coat. Found in the Western Ghats, it is the Beethoven of alarm clocks.

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Blue suede clues: Malabar Whistling Thrush

I don’t think we write poetry. We merely discover it. Poetry is everywhere; nude, unpredictable and evocative. We run around in circles, with hand mirrors pressed against our chests. We don’t create it from scratch. Breathe life into words. Or dig deeper within ourselves, past the festering muck of human drama, to find serenity in language.

Poetry sniffs us out. Then it hunts us down. It’s always either a pleasant surprise or a rude awakening. It occupies our throats. Rattles our bones. Blurs our vision. Fills our heads with delusions of inadequacy. And our hearts – with finger-plucked music and wet autumn leaves.

It can be beautiful yet empty. Melancholic but hopeful. It can be as confusing as it is comforting; as caustic as it is fragile. Strangely, it always makes us feel better about ourselves.

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