bird

I can see nothing at first to make them fly. It isn't me that they sense - but as I pass closer I see movement in the scrub - a barely perceptible shimmering. I feel my heart quicken despite my disinterest. Just walk, I tell myself, just walk. But I slow as I pass, and I can't quite help the quick glance over - just enough to see - almost - the flick of bright fabric - the jar of something that shouldn't be there. It takes a moment to centre, to coagulate, but when it does I stop suddenly with shock.

I look, then look again. The tree ahead is writhing, undulating. Mid-winter - foliage replaced by winged leaves and clawed twigs. As I draw nearer the movement and noise accelerate until as one the starlings rise up in an indignant murmuration.

I run on the marsh. The bleak expanse of brush and sky. My life comes to me - my family appearing suddenly as birds, when I am spent and least expect it. My mother, brown blackbird, sharp eyes. My grandmother a magpie high in the branches chattering disapproval and excitement. My father, the kingfisher, darting through the barge sails in the shipyard, never settling.