THE BIRDS

Bonne journée madame, bonne journée messieurs ! Bonne chance!

Disheveled, her hand extended to the void, her nails yellow and uncut, clubbing like those of a wild animal. She turns to passers-by, she says good morning, she says good luck, she shows her palm, she pushes air out of her lungs to articulate speech. How many times can someone say “good morning” and “good luck” before their humanness fades away?

I look at her quickly, and Ι pass by along with the crowd. It’s difficult to stop when I am surrounded by the mass. No one touches me, no one is in my way, but the current just won’t let me stop. As Ι walk away, among the squeaking sounds of the shoes going down the stairs in a rush, I hear her voice echoing between the giant cement walls of the Lionel-Groulx metro station. Like an invisible prima donna whose era went by and now, audienceless, she sings to the walls. She is not the only person coming here to sing. All kinds of birds find refuge here, musicians, beggars, the homeless… These people do not stand out in the country and the small villages. There, they sing to the birds. Here, they are the birds.