The landscape has arranged itself into good behavior. Flowers line up with perforated edges, clouds stamp themselves into obedient shapes, and the river lies open like carbon paper, ready to take impressions. The bird doesn’t hunt; it audits. Its beak is a thin directive, writing small amendments into the air, and the meadow rushes to comply, each petal answering in a brighter tone, as if brightness were a form of paperwork.
Color here is not decoration but protocol. Orange declares intention, pink provides context, blue verifies alibi. Even the hills sign their names in soft gradients. To linger is to become ornamental; to move is to be briefly believed.
So the bird chooses velocity over innocence. It leans into the world like a signature that won’t dry, crosses the scene, and leaves behind a neat rumor of approval, the kind that makes everything shimmer while it waits to be checked again.
