strange hours
wonder, dread, and the shape of tiny wings
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
Sitting at a red light, the other day, I watched as a white van pulled out, suddenly, from a side road, in front of an oncoming car. The driver of the car slammed on its brakes and hit the horn. The man driving the van stopped, in the middle of the road, blocking the car, and began screaming at the woman driving it. I was on the other side of the road, facing the direction she was coming from, so I could see her face, which wore a mix of confusion, indignation and fear. The latter of which grew considerably when the man opened his door and began marching towards her. I find that in situations which suddenly become serious, a rare quiet descends. It is clinical in tone and, as my vision fixes and narrows, a plan will emerge, lightning fast. If her door isn’t locked and he drags her from the car take the keys from the ignition, get the wrench from the boot, and if necessary, aim for his knees. Thankfully, her door was locked, and she had the wherewithal to manoeuvre around him as he pounded on her window, before she left him, alone and unhinged, raging in the middle of the road. I had beside me on the passenger seat a fledgling Blackbird who had died just minutes before. She’d been attacked by a Magpie, and had a small but deep wound in her neck. So deep, in fact, that the blood coming from it had been the most extraordinary violet colour. Like an Iris, or a Petunia. The light turned green, and I carried on my way, there but for the grace…