Thursday, 7 February 2008

the tiny dead bird

It's five am in Amsterdam and this is how I know.....
This morning when I was walking home we saw a tiny dead bird on the road. Soft ruffled feathers and a sharp little beak with legs like splintered matches. There was fog in the air and grey clouds of mist hung around the church spire. Our breath blew white air shadows. I didn't want to leave that bird alone and dead on a street corner. But I had nowhere to take it. A momentary desire without a home. 
In my appartment I will now make coffee and eat brioche with jam made with blueberries from Finistere ( the end of the earth). I will listen to the sound of the washing machine, and bury that little bird.

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