A Quiet Cacophony

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I close the window, shutting out the cheeping shrill of the feather-ruffled coven roosting – ousted from nests in trees now removed – on branches that shake with their avian anger.

The whoosh-slide of glass moves wooden against pane casing, the latch snicks closed.

The furnace whirs low and steady, thrumming with white noise and humming heat.

Softly shushing, he pads in almost-silence toward me.

One step, two, three…

Breath is a steady susurration, exhaling slow between us, quieting the noise inside my mind.

Tuning out the peripheral noise, attuned now to the intimate quiet, I reach out, focused on sound.

The gentle scrape of rounded nails on turgid flesh, the choked-throat strangle of restrained groan, the repeated shh-chh slide of press-stroke grip becomes the backbeat against which tiny mpp-pp-p stacatto kisses write their rhythm across his belly.

Mnghf.

Tension forces choked notes, sung strained and guttural, from his throat.

Heartbeat.
Blood rush.
Skin jump.

Arpeggios in pentatonic pleasure repeat, quickening, dissonant in changing key.

Desire is a down-feathered bird, letting loose a strangled cry as it falls headfirst – as though for the first time – in wind-seeking wingflight from its nest.

The shake of his limbs is a faint echo, his soft-muted stutter of bones a bare thread pianissimo imitation of the rustling leaf-whoosh on the other side of the window pane.

Outside, behind the plate-glass pane, on tree branches that shake with the vibratory displeasure of cawing scream-song, the birds continue their feather-fight cacophonous debate.

© Mrs Fever – Temperature’s Rising

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