The larks, when they finally came, were not a metaphor. They were real birds—crested, brown, with a trembling song that seemed to fall upward into the sky. Every spring, for a few weeks, they descended on the valley in numbers that defied belief. They came not to nest, but to perform. They would rise in spirals, singing, then plummet like stones, only to catch themselves at the last second and soar again. The old men said it was a courtship ritual. Aïcha said it was a prayer.
"Suit yourself. Don't let the ghosts catch you." aicha lark