"...There were among them two-headed birds and birds with many wings, there were cripples too, limping through the air in one-winged awkward flight. The sky now resembled those in old murals, full of monsters and fantastic beasts, which circled around, passing and eluding each other in elliptical maneuvers.
My father rose on his perch and, in a sudden glare of light, stretched out his hands, summoning the birds with an old incantation. He recognized them with deep emotion. They were the distant, forgotten progeny of that generation of birds which at one time Adela had chased away to all four points of the sky. That brood of freaks, that malformed, wasted tribe of birds, was now returning degenerated or overgrown. Nonsensically large, stupidly developed, the birds were empty and lifeless inside. All their vitality went into their plumage, into external adornment. They were like exhibits of extinct species in a museum, the lumber room of birds' paradise.
Some of them were flying on their backs, and had heavy misshapen beaks like padlocks, were blind, or were covered with curiously colored lumps. How moved my father was by this unexpected return, how he marveled at the instinct of these birds, at their attachment to the Master, whom that expelled the tribe had preserved in their soul like a legend, in order to return to their ancient motherland after numerous generations, on the last day before the extinction of the tribe.
But these blind birds made of paper could not recognize my father. In vain did he call them with the old formulas, in the forgotten language of the birds--they did not hear him nor see him.
All of a sudden, stone began to whistle through the air. The merrymakers, the stupid thoughtless people had begun to throw them into the fantastic bird-filled sky.
In vain did Father warn them, in vain did he entreat them with magical gestures--he was not heard, nor heeded. The birds began to fall. Hit by stones, they hung heavily and waited while still in the air. Even before they crashed to the ground, they were formless heaps of feathers.
In a moment, the plateau was astrew with strange, fantastic carrion. Before my father could reach the place of the slaughter, the once-splendid birds were dead, scattered all over the rocks."
from the chapter "The Night of the Great Season" in the book "The Street of Crocodiles and Other Short Stories" by Bruno Schulz.
the book is told in short tales, so if you're a good, but slow reader, i suggest picking this up. it's a book you don't have to read in order. it will still make sense and still be beautiful.
(felt birds from http://www.tmogy.com/homep.html)
