empty handed
and a tornado of innumerable Blue Tits
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
There is a thick fog weighing in the valley. It crept in one night and has stayed for days. I don’t know how to feel about it, as I cannot tell whether it is suffocating or cradling me. Midweek, its soft cocoon shielded me from the potential insult of the sun, but yesterday it wrapped its hands around my throat and prevented me from breathing in the view. Perhaps, like Death, this Rorschachian fog is a mirror. Life refracts through each of us like prisms. The spectrum that we cast—and therefore see—is determined by our inner geometry.
As the temperature here cools, the fattening instinct of our local Birds becomes nothing short of ferocious. There is a constant, frenetic hoard of Blue Tits at our garden feeders. The tiny, bold beings dart and sing, and fan their impossibly small wings in an adorable attempt to intimidate whenever there is debate over whose turn it is.
When they land on the feeder by the kitchen window, their staccato pecking sounds as though it could be Morse code. David and I once made a note of the dots and dashes of their pecks, just to see what kind of gibberish it translated to. Strangely, it spelled out: your human delusions of superiority will be your undoing.