during a morning departure, collecting snails

I was impressing spoons; one spoon, one fresh dig. It took me one hour to make one spoon. Today is the big day. The lake stood perfect; still for moving. Everything had a place for itself. Best sleep I've had in a long time. I chipped two notches away and in two minutes had two new birds to speak to and to eat with. With every swing of the clock-hand my new friends twitched their bird-heads to eat and make even pace with the dawning clouds. Cover rained down in the early evening; long after I'd forgotten my place among the shifting seasons. Each droplet of sky tapped down on my forehead and I met it gratefully with a tap on the wood-block with my spoon. Every two swings of the minute hand met with two friends and two pecks eaten two even sweeps of cloud and fresh food served at the miming plaque of the wood-block. The clouds closed up at nightfall when as the day died my two friends closed their eyes above their keratin beaks and slowed down their breathing. I stayed awake to mark the silence.