Alive the air
Up here in birdworld alive the air.
From bushes a hidden coo coo woo coo coo woo.
From opposing house a black fat bird squadding the roof.
This birds mate flies from tall tree over there to here and, as mate had, walks the roof rim like squaddie on parade. These two birds cross over without touching beaks.
Now, a small bird at attic window flutter fluttering…..
Girl is watching. She reaches out to take tiny mad thing inside. Her young hand pressed calmly against glass, presses the place of the birds head. The bird shoots off up.
She waits at window looking about trees following songs. The coo coo woo is unable to switch off. Questions behind leaves she hears. She cannot answer.
Quite soon, once again, the small bird flutter flutters with white wing-tips clapping fast against glass, hovering there, beating the window like a madman as if wanting to break through. Reaching out hand to touch glass, the bird soon flies off up, disappearing again.
With finger she traces on glass the body where the bird was, feeling to go where it went. She tries to pull window open to further see its sky. Too tight the latch for her weak grip, she yanks and yanks; but unable to open up – she yields.
You came for me didn’t you bird, you knew where I live, that I’m here. That’s why you had to get in – for me. She blows these, or some such words on glass as if to make, with breath, the vanished thing re-appear.
And for some time, like this, with hands and face touching and breathing, against glass she waits, looking all over the blue bright sky.
No such bird returns. Over to smaller kitchen window she goes then, standing on chair to lift up catch, pushes open. Now you can get in. Come back, come here for me, as soon as you can. This is what she wants at the window as she watches, waiting for what she wishes.
No such bird there either. Instead only the two fat birds she sees, on birdwatch, patrolling the roof, first one way then the other, seeming to know what they do. They look all over anywhere. Then, as ordered, they both come to a stop and, in a standstill, stay perched for some time with only empty heads moving, in slight nods and swivels.
Their black hollow heads don’t sing anything. What they can’t sing they only see, keeping the looks to themselves within small eyes, directing silences onto objects that move.
They do not see her or pay any heed. She moves off to first window, looks, waits, moves back to second window…..looks…. looks forlornly….. waits, waiting for some small long time.
The madman is not coming back. Her mad little bird. Bringing its blue bright instinct for her to life, of inexplicable longing, devotion…..
The afternoon is summer long. And still the coo coo woo, but this she cannot see, still the black looks, but these she cannot hear. And the flutter fluttering, which is long ago gone – and this she cannot follow.
This entry was posted on January 8, 2008 at 5:28 pm and is filed under Stories. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.
