turning
roots, rivers, lungs and lightning
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Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
We have reached the time of year when the rescue centre is inundated by Swifts, Swallows and House Martins—and the baby House Martins look especially Disney, this year1. The absolute saints who care for the baby Swifts have to take them home and feed them, every couple of hours, by ever so gently prising open their tiny beaks in order to place a waxworm, or three, inside. It is an intensely delicate process.
There are times when, lost in the intensity of the season, I fail to appreciate how significant it is to be surrounded by people performing, largely thankless, acts of service and kindness—all the while living with the spectre of the fact that their efforts might not be enough.