Some mornings I carry my small table, chair and typewriter out on to a knoll below one of the oaks, and take a little help from the babblers and bulbuls that flit in and out of the canopies of leaves. White-hooded babblers; yellow-bottomed bulbuls. Never still for a moment, they help me with my punctuation. For dialogue I depend more on the crickets, cicadas and grasshoppers who keep up a regular exchange, debating the issues of the day. But for reflective and descriptive writing I look into the distance, at the purple hills merging with an azure sky; or I examine a falling leaf as it spirals
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I played an audio of babblers and bulbul after reading this and read it again. It was magical
