a set of vast wings
tiny birds and dying bodies
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
The temperature, here, has plummeted. Every year on the eve of the dawn that brings the first frost I spend the night fitful and restless, gripped by worry for the little Birds. I lay there, picturing myself with a set of vast wings, folding over and around each songbird, in the way that mama Swans enfold their signets. When the sun rises and the Blue Tits appear—peeping out from the Conifer like little Christmas decorations—my lungs return to their full capacity. I am reminded that they are made for this. That countless Blue Tits have faced countless Winters, and that nature knows exactly what it is doing. It is I who am lost to worry and fear.