Purple finches, brilliant azure Stellar's Jays, a great black crow. These all flapped past the fire escape this morning. Amorous doves can be heard cooing in buildings' every crevice. The days are brighter and birdsong extends long into the evening, starts early in the morning. Even in the dark, something avian is apt to chirrup or tweet or make some other nightjarring noise outside my window while I sleep.
As a result of this or else despite it, I crave weighty, pointed svartfuglsegg, speckled and dusky blue. I lie half-dreaming of red yolks fat with fish oil, so rich they taste like salmon paté, in milky translucent whites that never turn wholly white, not even upon baking.
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