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Wet Spell
probably with a tube like the medic does to the dying. But the creek
fosters life and the animals need to drink their fill. I look at the
trees, naked and speechless in the wind and I imagine the house
submerged in the creek head first, like a duck diving underwater. Its
frozen surface looks like a mirror.
’
When the ducklings return to a cold nest, sometimes their wings get
caught in the icy glow, dead and bright as the reflections of stars
floating on water. It’s common, during wet spells. Moonlight on
their bellies and mortality at their backs, they turn from ashes to
aspens. It’s like the seasons get trapped in their bones until they
thaw and it will be winter for a long time coming. I can crawl close
enough to smell the dying fragrance of their bodies, my claws soaked
and bits of plume sticking to them like I had stolen the wings of an
angel. My hands can disappear while I am still staring at them and I
can’t wring the blood from them even though they’re full. The storm
has the sound of glass or an orchestra or the time my mum left the
tap running. The bare trees shiver in the wind, slouching out of spite
away from the nesting. Maybe they’re shying from the honesty of
decay that has taken its place.
I clean the rime off the plumage with my sleeves. It smells musty
and cloying like wet moss. Mum left behind a pillow stuffed with
feathers and I press the memory like a soft bruise with my eyes full,
cheeks smeared and my mouth melting into leaking breaths. I think
about my dad saying how
we don’t cherish summer without knowing the cold
,
and outside I can hear blunt wings loud in the evening quiet.
’
I’m in the shade searching for a nest and I see an older girl standing
by the creek. I hadn’t seen her around, so she must be from the new
family that just moved across from here.
Hey there, s
he says,
What brings you here so early?
Nothing much I tell
her, collecting feathers. She raises a brow and tries to follow my line
of sight. I gesture for her to be quiet as not to startle the birds.
Down sweaters are the duck’s guts this season
, and she starts going on
about ethics and the anatomy of flight and other things I don’t care
to know. I’ve always wondered how duck’s guts look, and I picture
their offals denuding every hidden colour but shudder at the
thought.
She lights up with her hand blocking the wind. I tell her it kills
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