Those little Birds of Moscow are always in a hurry. Wherever they fly, they take this city with them, sometimes cantankerously shrieking, other times softly tweeting. Their tiny beaks are snapping, the golden caps, floating. Birdies can’t stand one another, yet their chirping hearts beat in unison. White flickers, ooze and concrete, sweet marble curls…

The little birds of Moscow softly and elegantly walk among us. They look only upwards and crumble this city under their feet. Ash and coal. Birds of Moscow are watchfully looking from everywhere, waiting for the continuation of old stories. And lonely laughter in the silence.