I remember once listening in exhausted delight to the dawn chorus. A weird night had brought us listless and dreaming without ever once having been to bed. Now over a reviving cup of tea, I let nature's sweet music wash over me.
"You realize that it's not as pleasant as it sounds?" My friend interrupted my waking slumber.
"They're singing that they survived. They're passing on the news of the night, alerting others to which members of the flock froze to death, and which got eaten by predators."
Reality swung strangely through my reverberating perspective. "Really?" Illuminated by a different light, the birdsong seemed suddenly desperate, not pleasant at all.
"Yeah." My friend confirmed and we sat in silence listening, a little bit wiser and slightly less at ease. "Sorry to burst your bubble."
But my mind had already moved on, through legend and songbird sounding from elsewhere. Into a mythic cycle concerning the divine Great Queen, whose remit spanned the globe and all its worlds. The birds of Rigantona sang where realities crossed or overlapped; to hear them was often to shatter the facade of your own.
"The birds of Rhiannon." I slowly replied, lifting my tea mug in salute to the Great Queen's local aspect. "Bubbles are meant to be burst."