Stories Sunday: The Bird Catcher

An image of a doll

The Bird Catcher

 

He peaks,

out of withered broke feathers

 

He’ll jump Mr death

                                           one more day,                                           

sizing up the ripe horizon

where are those shiny pretty things?

in the nest:

Voices  –  stomachs

                             marbled and knotted,                            

their worn out windpipes

blocked with inked tissue

and bottled messages.

He nestles them fondly.

 

He stands up

bones slotting stiffly

into place

cranes long neck

and reaches it upwards

feeling the crinks.

spreads limbs and

SOARS.

 

the world is so fresh

green and velvety

all flying beneath Him.

 

sparrows He watches splinder

blackbirds just battle.

its Pheasants today.

red, golden plumage

jewelled crests

imported game.

Beautiful.

 

net in claw

He swoops, dives and

pins.

bundle of dirty feathers

left matted.

 

exotic tropical.

 

He likes the feel

of the words in his

mouth

adding them all

to his fine collection.

 

Written by: Eva Reppe-Roverselli.

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