"Lying face-up, I follow one lark on his ascent. He gains height in wide circles, small and brown and happy, he rises singing and his song is full, not too varied but constant and rich in color, it seems to me from an incessant joy, as if the lark and his flight had no other raison d'être than this uninterrupted song, this celebration of life for its own sake, no reasons or ontology, no hells or heavens. Now almost a point in space, he stays motionless against the wind, his wings trembling in a crystalline suspension from which his song pours out and prodigiously arrives all the way down here. That tiny throat, that fragile little body, how can they be the source of a music exhaled hundreds of meters up in the air that comes to alight so clearly in my all by incredulous ears?"
- from "Roadsongs," by Julio Cortázar, translated by Anne McLean, Issue #8, Making Histories
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