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By Bruno Monnerat Alves
Callings
I work.
I correct phrases.
I cut words,
impiously.
I caress them.
I struggle with
them, always in search of the “adequate”…
I read the text
again, I erase, I re-write…
I abstract myself
from the noise that denounce that there’s a world outside and it pulses!
Suddenly, one of
them stands out. I recognize it…
It’s the call of
the couple of infatuated haws… always together, flying among the trees and
the buildings. I follow them for a year. I see them in the top of the tall
buildings nearby, in the lightning-rods. Sliding in the blue in a
synchronic flight, hunting…
Cast away from
their natural habitat, they try to live among the concrete and the green
area that still exists here in Laranjeiras, my neighbourhood…
The dark part of
their wings, in contrast with the white stripe… their pointed beak, sharp
senses… their scanning look…
I go back to my
craft. It’s necessary.
Suddenly, new
callings fill my heart!
I fantasize that the hawks strut for
me…
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