Addressing the Birds
No one has said anything about the magpies. They fell through the ceiling like weights, their bodies spilling like ink onto the kitchen floor. I had been there in the doorway. They leave piles of oil-drenched feathers on our pillows, in our sink. No one has said anything, but one night I snuck out and saw Mum holding a broom dripping wet with black grease. They haven’t said anything, but the people in town know. I haven’t said anything, but I caught one in my hands and the black ink hasn’t faded. We are keeping quiet about the magpies.
Photo credit: Indiana Caba
I love this story. I seems like I can hold the bird in my hands, and feel the oily weight. It’s like being part of some dark secret. Well written.