I had just killed my biological father for the fourth—or perhaps the fifth—time when the crows took to the air, screaming. I leaped from my laptop, raced into the garden, and vaulted the fence into the field beyond, where an angry cloud of corvids swirled above a hunched bird of prey. A red kite had a jackdaw pinned to the ground. Without thinking about the kite’s right to its lunch, I snatched the little jackdaw away. It fit into my palm snug as a pistol. Feathers gunmetal gray. Beak like knapped flint, marked with use. Eyes sapphire blue. It blinked once. Twice. Then it was gone. Its blood drained from a gash that ran from neck to chest and spilt across my hand.
It turned out to be the first of many. While writing my memoir—Featherhood, a story about fathers and birds—dead or dying jackdaws took to throwing themselves at me with alarming regularity, like reprimands from on high. No sooner had one been stretchered off to the local vet, than another would come scuttling out of the bushes, cat-clawed or hawk-ripped, and I, like a fool, would bend down and pick it up.
https://vinhomesduan.com/tin/venomtee-water-her-daily-t-shirt-2/
https://gongchashirt.com/news/venomtee-this-mermaid-is-9-years-old-birthday-t-shirt-2/
https://lovingtees.com/venomtee-the-calhoun-school-class-of-2001-20th-reunion-2021-t-shirt-2/
Không có nhận xét nào:
Đăng nhận xét