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and that birds fly off and use them to burn down homes, but she
ignores it and keeps complaining about the
bloody creek
being too
close to her home, like she thought the place where lands meets
water was the edge of the world.
She mutters,
it’s been a good spell hasn’t it
, as she twists the cigarette
butt in the mud. I ask her how to break it and she just looks at me
and says,
you’re a bit wet behind the ears even for your age
. I feel the backs
of my ears and a droplet catches onto my finger. It must be the
weather.
We should head back inside, the weather forecast’s not looking good
, she says
concerned, but I don’t trust the weatherman.
’
By the time I get home the feathers have become loose inside my
palms like when my mum’s hair was all falling out. A while ago the
trees were undulating and whispering in the tempest, and even
though you can’t hear them now, their melodies never cease.
This time I prepare a more concentrated syrup. A child’s dose
would do it for anyone, needless to say for a duckling. That way the
coats are fresh and will pull off easier. I also mix some in the butane
of dad’s lighter.
The walls felt paper thin. Not so secretly, I’m afraid of the
thunder outside.
’
It’s been a week since the wind sounded sharp enough that it could
cut through trunks to release the sentient ghosts of their sap. I sit by
the creek, just watching the birds and the fish floating above it like
they had fallen from the sky. There must have been something in the
water and I waited for so long I began to think it would turn the
shade of blood. I picked up a carcass and it had released so much
cortisol its wings fell off and left a two finger wound when I tried to
move it. Its feathers stood like velvet stroked the wrong way and so
stiff it was no good.
I strolled around till I found another duck by a worn out nest. It
was weak and probably sick. I gripped it firm on the mantle and
tightened my fingers at the base of a quill. I hesitated in the embryo
of a moment and then plucked, at first one at a time and then in
clusters.
The creek reflected all that remains of the sky, the sky just getting
bigger and bigger.
Wet Spell
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