Mirrorwings

The omen of humidity to come floats in the late spring air this evening, surreptitiously gnawing

 away at this serene lull with flashbacks of summer's scorching heat.

The two of us drift toward this little park by habit, to seal the closure of the day with some beers

and the long-yearned-for relief of native conversation. Foreigners with little more than a year 

spent in the country, the quiet of Tokyo's nights still able to have us stop mid conversation, 

still stupefied by how, once sound asleep, this sprawling concrete titan can shrink its sonic 

presence down to an unobtrusive background hum.

The empty children playground, its jungle gym now unattended, its swings left hanging

 in motionless wait, underscores the tranquility of the setting further more; I notice 

by the way my tone has dwindled: it must have been centuries upon centuries of this soundscape

 that moulded  the sound of Japanese into the gentle murmur it is now.

Hardly 9pm, the sky long pitch-black dark, the adjacent street is all but desolate: on bicycle or 

foot still passersby appear: commuters back from overtime, schoolboys with bats

 or kendo swords, delivery guys on late shift, dogs on walks with their ownees, 

exchange students with mismatched groceries in bulging plastic bags, the occasional 

senior citizen devoted to exercise.

Cats negotiating mating or turf wars, the moon aloof along its nightly commute, park's benches

periodically offer sanctuary to smartphone and tobacco devotees.

Somewhere halfway through her twenties, the girl chooses to sit close to a street light, 

her back to the scant pedestrian traffic. 

The birdcage she brought here being set down on the same bench, it takes some fluttering of 

wings for the parroquet inside it to settle on its perch; then silence can resume.

After some rummaging the girl produces a rectangular mirror from her bag, to be held facing the

cage's unobstructed side. At this unsuitable time of the day, birdsong begins.

The parroquet entertains its illusory host with mellow chirping, the way the lively melody
pauses and restarts paced at an oddly conversation-like meter. The very nature of this
solitary dialogue though only evident to avian logic.
In the meantime the girl's other hand holds a smartphone, swiftly writing messages with the
sole thumb, the restless finger dancing in the upwards aura of the screen.
Be it glass or pixel the source that it is drawn from, ersatz-companionship appears to be
all but a nuisance for those within as well as for those without the cage.