Jing-sheng’s cane clicked on the cobbled street. Pausing he lifted his head, scrutinizing the cages hanging between the buildings like forgotten laundry.
It started in the mid-15th century. Privileged elite gathered in tea houses, gossiping, drinking tall tales, and discussing the intricacies of feeding, raising and training their pets.
When his grandfather died, Jing-sheng embraced his legacy and his flock. No one would call him elite. A simple working man, he carried his treasures to the park every morning.
Vanished from the wild, the devoted ones slipped away. The exotic song of birds became a memory that faded with the winter wind.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer