Enjambre -

Silence rushes back in, so absolute it leaves a bruise. The branch, now bare, sways gently. You pull your hand away from the glass. Your fingerprints are the only thing left on the window, and the air, for the first time all afternoon, feels empty. You are alone again. Just you, and the echo of a million wings.

The air itself has a heartbeat.

Enjambre.

It begins as a hum on the edge of hearing, a vibration that lives not in the ear but in the sternum. A low, thrumming question mark. Then the first scout arrives, a speck of black against the white of the afternoon sky. Then another. Then a dozen. The air thickens. enjambre

The word feels sticky in the mouth, a cluster of consonants that buzz against the teeth. It is not a flock, graceful and migratory. It is not a pack, bound by loyalty and fang. It is a swarm —a single mind fractured into a thousand furious bodies. Each one is negligible: a pinch of dust, a wisp of wing, a needle of intent. But together, they are a liquid. A living, churning cloud that pours itself over branches, eaves, and the forgotten bicycle in the yard. Silence rushes back in, so absolute it leaves a bruise

And the sound. God, the sound. It is not a song. There is no melody, no soloist. It is the roar of the collective, a single, sustained note of now . It bypasses the ears and speaks directly to the ancient lizard in the base of the skull. Danger , it whispers. Safety in numbers. Run. Or stay and be consumed. Your fingerprints are the only thing left on