Photo by Eva Wilcock on Unsplash
Their voices – those we barely remember, those we never knew – urge us to bear witness. A corpse on barbed wire. Nights filled with flames. One hand slipping from another’s grasp. They’ve suffered beyond our knowing. But then they ask us to turn, and walk towards the spring of our lives. Out in the woods their voices merge with the trill and chatter – nuthatch, mistle-thrush, blackbird.