The Song of the Lark

She woke up to a beautiful spring morning. There wasn't a cloud in
the sky and the air was filled with bird song.
Only yesterday her neighbour had said how silent it was. It was already the middle of May and not once had he heard a cuckoo or the song of the lark.
She got out of bed and walked slowly to the bedroom window. The black bird sat at the top of the apple tree, singing its heart out.

She was a city girl, born and raised. Narrow, dark backstreets had been her playground. Only about a year ago she had moved to the country and she loved it.
The sight of the apple tree, with its delicate apple blossom made her happy, as did the improvised song of the black bird. A sigh of contentment slipped from her lips.

She didn't know what was missing.