ONCE MORE HE’S woken in half-light by birdsong through the open window: an intricate patterning of notes, the slip and slide and trill of them, in busily criss-crossed, overlapping layers. Wall-to-tinny-wall, the sounds fill the small space round him, each note light, yet the whole mass has such density, like drizzle drifting down on him, soaking him in sound.
In half-sleep, he sighs.
Not just yet, then, the silent spring.
Jess has snuck up onto his bunk again. She knows she shouldn’t. He can feel her muzzle resting on his ankles, stirs to release his feet, but doesn’t have the heart ...
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