The Power Of Song (Short Story)

He’s out there again — quite close by — as though he knows I’m here, listening, always listening. I’d know his song anywhere. He started at dawn, and has hardly taken a break since, but somehow he never quite repeats himself, always finding new phrases, fresh combinations of notes. He is a master of his craft.
    He sang the morning Father died. I knew at the time, it was a portent. I wonder if Father heard it, too — down deep in his unconscious state. It’s said those in a coma can hear human voices, so why not birdsong?
    I don’t speak of any of this to the doctor. He didn’t believe me when I told him about my baby. He tried to deny there ever was a baby. He says he wants to help me, but something in his voice betrays him, and he doesn’t listen closely. He can’t hear the things I can. He might just as well be deaf, but then I’m sure deaf people have a sensitivity that compensates, picking up on vibrations, tiny fluctuations in air pressure that has some meaning for them. And sounds have colour, I am quite sure of it. This morning’s song translates to the blue, indigo, violet part of the spectrum. When he sings in the evening, his notes reflect the sunset, passionate and almost bloody. It stirs me up to think of flames and burning cities. I take it as a warning — an echo of past horrors, and a vision of those to come ...
    Yet there is still time to save the world, if only men would listen. His song is so sweet this morning — unbearably melancholy. Listen ... Can you hear it? Can you?