and the cold waiting (TWS) - thoroughly abandoned!
12-02-2011, 10:06 AM
Thereâs a bird on her windowsill.
Itâs watching her. She sees it when she goes to shut the oven door, the pear shape on the lip of the battered pot. Dust on the feathers, clean lines on the sill, flour scattered into small droplets on the floor. The tree outside, tinkling, the sound wet and strange. The bird, sitting on the pot she keeps her water in.
Itâs green. Green as glass. Even the tiny feet are green as they shift and crook around the handle. She stares.
Sheâs heard of birds. âSpeak,â she tells it, voice hoarse.
The bird says nothing. Watches her.
She watches it back. Shuts the oven door. Wipes her hands on her apron, slow, slow. Tries to think of what they say to birds in the stories they tell the market-children to keep them quiet and sleepy. After a while, she remembers hearing that birds whistle, so she pushes her lips together. Pushes hair from her face with a floury hand, presses her lips together and and shoves out a noise that splits her dry mouth in two, cracks the air so the water trembles in her water-pot. The tree complains. The bird does nothing.
She sighs. Rubs her lips with the back of her hand, tastes salt. The bird stares at her, shifting little green feet the colour of glass.
The tree outside glitters, curfew approaching its leaves. She wipes a hand down her apron again, takes a breath. Reaches across the benchtop, over the burnmarks and the stains and the kingdoms of abandoned dough. What does one do with birds? What does one say? âCome here,â she tries, soft, soft. âCome here.â
The bird comes, light on her fingertips like water.
She stops breathing. This is a bird. Sheâs heard of birds. Itâs on her finger. The weight of it convinces her most, a solid teaspoon-heft on her skin and the prick of claws as it shifts, settles, green feet gripping hard. Thereâs a bird in the kitchen and sheâs only ever seen them in the picturebooks but she knows, she knows, they sing, they fly-
she remembers the drawings, gold and white and red and blue, bright as glass bottles and real trees and as beautiful. And theyâre alive. And this oneâs green as the grass people talk about, a living green, spattered with freckles across the wings like the pears in picturebooks and itâs sitting on her finger-
Itâs on her finger. Itâs real. The little grey splatter in the dough is real enough, sticky to the touch, and so is the roar of the oven and the weight of the bird and the sonorous note of the curfew bell-
Itâs watching her. She sees it when she goes to shut the oven door, the pear shape on the lip of the battered pot. Dust on the feathers, clean lines on the sill, flour scattered into small droplets on the floor. The tree outside, tinkling, the sound wet and strange. The bird, sitting on the pot she keeps her water in.
Itâs green. Green as glass. Even the tiny feet are green as they shift and crook around the handle. She stares.
Sheâs heard of birds. âSpeak,â she tells it, voice hoarse.
The bird says nothing. Watches her.
She watches it back. Shuts the oven door. Wipes her hands on her apron, slow, slow. Tries to think of what they say to birds in the stories they tell the market-children to keep them quiet and sleepy. After a while, she remembers hearing that birds whistle, so she pushes her lips together. Pushes hair from her face with a floury hand, presses her lips together and and shoves out a noise that splits her dry mouth in two, cracks the air so the water trembles in her water-pot. The tree complains. The bird does nothing.
She sighs. Rubs her lips with the back of her hand, tastes salt. The bird stares at her, shifting little green feet the colour of glass.
The tree outside glitters, curfew approaching its leaves. She wipes a hand down her apron again, takes a breath. Reaches across the benchtop, over the burnmarks and the stains and the kingdoms of abandoned dough. What does one do with birds? What does one say? âCome here,â she tries, soft, soft. âCome here.â
The bird comes, light on her fingertips like water.
She stops breathing. This is a bird. Sheâs heard of birds. Itâs on her finger. The weight of it convinces her most, a solid teaspoon-heft on her skin and the prick of claws as it shifts, settles, green feet gripping hard. Thereâs a bird in the kitchen and sheâs only ever seen them in the picturebooks but she knows, she knows, they sing, they fly-
she remembers the drawings, gold and white and red and blue, bright as glass bottles and real trees and as beautiful. And theyâre alive. And this oneâs green as the grass people talk about, a living green, spattered with freckles across the wings like the pears in picturebooks and itâs sitting on her finger-
Itâs on her finger. Itâs real. The little grey splatter in the dough is real enough, sticky to the touch, and so is the roar of the oven and the weight of the bird and the sonorous note of the curfew bell-