Above the water the birds had ceased to wheel.

But the birds cease their twittering, as if to hear the next line of the ancient song.

The birds had ceased singing and there was perfect silence except for one small, persistent sound, which seemed to come from a good distance away.

The birds have ceased to sing, the crickets to chirp, the flies to buzz, the darkness to fall.

Dusk began to gather, the last birds in that dense shadowiness of trees had ceased to sing.

As winter progresses, even this active bird slows and ceases to crow.

When those birds flew, these birds would cease to sing.

And outside in the magical garden the birds ceased their singing.

The birds in the trees momentarily ceased their optimistic twitter.

For an instant, the distant birds ceased their cries, and the air itself seemed to go still, hushed with expectation.