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Sitting in the most ideal position your voice always in my ear, I feel it there, haunting my canal of winding filaments, echoing on and on into the nervous system of my brain. The synapses of every neuron spark off and I shiver. You speak again, and it seems so simple about how easily I am annoyed, you've condescended to me, made me stupid, or cut me off. But, I am silent, or at least I think I am, in my mind I think of something to make you speak again to fill my brain with the same raw emotion I wanted to begin with.
My snarky side kick speaks for me, his Kiwi voice carried on waves of sarcasm, slapping everyone in the room with a cold limp wrist, chilling enough to excite with rage, but soft enough to keep it at a dull raised voice. My truest friend, dainty, a graceful Crane, speaks out of her turn to correct him, her turn being after her enemy so ready with insult. He will turn like a snake, the Viper he is, whose prey was stolen, and bite her next. How I sigh.
At the front of the room our elder Albatross teaches unceasingly through noises so rude, and crude, as well as lewd. Curses and swears reminding those few paying attention that, “it’s very rude to speak while a teacher is teaching." With hope I chime in, knowing my voice will be drowned out. More crassness is piled on, and more, and more until a slap of the meter stick comes down on the desk. “In 13th 14th and 15th century..." Tuning out, there is no point by now; there is a quick turn to see that face and then a glance back at the board.
Again, now another one starts screaming, in some foreign tongue, or rather a known tongue masked by a foreign cloud of lisps and slurs. He is an Angel, but rather by name only, he is more so a Gander. Annoyance his trumpet and he plays it all too well. I cry inside when he goes off on nonsensical or aurally misunderstood rants about nothing. Followed shortly after by the devil, of persona and not name, who shouts in small squawks, making ears bleed and mouths cringe into tight pursed lips with stretched muscles and contracted jaw, Parrot of the sea this one. Shuttering there is little left to explain.
The silent finches sing the greatest song, their voices mute, but thoughts and smirks tell a tale unheard all the time, they chuckle so subtle you miss it if not paying close attention, Parakeet brothers they seem to be. A single finch in the far corner, another near the middle, and the third behind, that seated next to the finest fowl, the One. And then that voice rings again, melting, I try to keep cool. Failing, harder than expected, shoving my beak in a book, and leaning back in a chair to be distracted by the faithful friend, and the jovial soprano Lark next to her. Friend tells a joke, and Lark chuckles, mandible smiling, until balance pulls me toward gravity, and laughter tumbles from my mouth.
The Albatross looks in the far right corner view of his vision with scornful disdain. But all isn't a loss, a small sheepish smile, and all is restored, this bird of knowledge truly loves all of us, but my eyes could never hold such fowl in sight for so long, it would be wrong, they seem to hold you so responsible for their inability to control a flock of birds, but that One rarest of all, who speaks so sweetly, oh how I wish I could possess that Mocking-bird that I love, but it is seeking something similar but completely different, it could never want a Dodo like me.
Ah but alas of these small birds, there is something more important to learn today, or at least something I’m told is more important, that is, how to compose music for birds of the "13th 14th and 15th century". Oh how I sigh, with a airy laugh backing each breath.