Lots of what they call “tongued triple notes” - we’ve all learned a little music-speak after so many years of airborne concerts. They used to come with the sunrise every morning, shouting their flourish into the skies, a salute like something you’d hear at an Olympic opening ceremony: proud, majestic, stirring. I wish I could tell you exactly when they’ll appear. For all I know, they just change position within the V, but musicians with keener ears say they can hear the difference between the ensembles of different forays, and who am I to second-guess the experts? There will be eleven trumpets in flight at a time, though I’m told there are many more of them overall, each one with its own slight variation in color, shape, and tone. Oh yes, then you’re sure to hear one of their fanfares. We still see and hear them arcing overhead with their glorious tidings, which you’ve come to hear. Well, the trumpets haven’t entirely forsaken us. But, unlike the birds, this sparkling brass never forsakes us - or, it never did until. Sometimes they arrive in the morning, gleaming in new sunlight, heralding the wonders of the day to come, soaring in formation across the sky like a flock of golden geese on their migration.
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