Birdie

This is the bird that hangs on a thread from the study window and looks out over the back garden. If not the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, then its close familiar; crude, perhaps, if compared to a living bird, but expressive of something. It has been put together from flotsam and jetsam scraps of material, wire, twigs and feathers from the natural world. On its breast is a red flower (plastic) and a sequin, which catches the light. It is ready for something. Look at those antennae, the blush of pink at the base of the tail feather, the raised wings and the splayed feet. From day to day, no-one sees it but me. If I don't project some measure of hope and joy onto its brittle frame, how can it live at all? And doesn't it deserve to? Perhaps not (perhaps nothing does?) but I won't be the one to put it in black bin bag hell with all the unredeemed clutter. If I say it is alive, then it is. And I do say it.

tweet

This morning being fine and full of birdsong, I stumbled out into the forest (because I can, being on the edge of it). I didn't get lost, but I did stray from the path, and I did wander further than I meant to. I always do this - go on until I suddenly know that I have gone too far, walking back will be difficult, the days that follow also. But the birds did lead me on, so many of them in full voice, particularly the small ones, those you don't often see nowadays, unless you live near a forest or a protected place. My neighbour has made a study of bird language. There are many, as you might imagine. The song of a linnet is nothing like the low, persistent call of a dove. Chaffinch tweets melodiously and the Blue Tit is more conversational. Each year they come and nest in the bird box that Son made when he was at school. One feels privileged.

I think this may be all I can say for now. More of a tweet than a post :)