Friday, April 18, 2008

 

Write a paragraph describing a simple action that you do every day ...


I lie in bed, waiting for the light to strengthen, listening to music, knowing the first thing I'll do is walk to the kitchen, open the window and feed the bird.

A plate-boundary-shift sized tremor of guilt awaits the day of failure.

Whether the bird is in control, or I am, is knife edge.

Each morning I feed the ever fattening dove - 'it' was two until recently: The suspicion is they're off to pastures new and this fine fellow is a replacement.

Resentment has been firmly suppressed, even though all through the winter I kept that scraggy pair going, hopeful of a successful nest in the tree opposite the window (they failed miserably last year - the first downpour flooding them out of house and home).

Cooing in the morning drags me from the remnants of sleep; I suppose this should be considered as debt repayment.

An empty plastic ice-cream container on the worktop - just in front of the bread bin, holds the day's allocated feed. Last thing to do at night is re-load this with seed - bought cheap, but still bought. Doves, at least these wild sort, as a breed are fairly fussy about what they'll eat.

The idea of lentils (one of my own favourites) seems anathema - and attracts the pigeons. Similarly, beaks are turned up at all variety of pulses, and anything too large.

I do slip in the bread crumbs that fall from locally baked loaves- and my late morning slice of cake scatters more crumbs, all brushed into the box. If we are lucky (both bird and I) the cake will have some walnuts on it - although very thinly scattered, which, considering the number of 'nuca' trees growing in this 'nuca' rich country is something of a miser's trick.

The Walnuts have to be chopped though - and I have caught myself sacrificing , at least fifty fifty, any large piece found perched on top of a cake.

The dove announces it's need by alighting on the dull metal windowsill - these 60s and 70s communist built blocks are anything but subtle. Its horny feet clatter.

Straight to the window, a look in - a most superior look in - then off to the neighbouring tree where it can supervise my opening of the window, scattering of breakfast, and withdrawal three paces back: Any closer and it will coo at me, in a most affronted way, 'til I go further back.

Then the open winged landing - it really is strange, the sensation of a bird wrapping it's wings and almost embracing the air, pulling in - the secret of flight ? - to itself.

Seeing the strutting peck, peck, pecking automaton it transforms into, it is hard to conceive the Icarus-like freedom it is in command of.




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