In the lush green grass a divot appeared. In the middle of the road, scooped up into existence by who knows what, perhaps a trowel, perhaps a sand wedge, perhaps an outraged boot, a tufty turf sat and thought. It thought of movement, it thought of limbs, from thought and root it grew four legs and waggled them in a movement experiment. It’s green spines waggled, it’s dirt nose twitched, it skipped and scampered forwards a foot. For four more moments it sat upon a cat’s eye, it’s tufts blew as cars shot past, it could feel the rush, could smell the road. In rapid instinct it felt the rush was bad, to be avoided, it waited for the rush to cease. In a quiet moment legs scampered to where the fresh scent emerged, where it smelled of him. He felt the rush at his rear, just as his nose touched the verge, he made it. In the grass he sat, he stayed, there was nowhere else he wished to be.
I love our cats to bits but, Jesus, the hunting..
Two starling chicks appeared in our bedroom in the middle of the morning. One sadly had left this place early, the second was fighting on, we rescued her from the clutches of doom and put her in an egg box with tissue padding. She was barely feathered, we had no clue where the nest could be, so we fed her mealworms soaked in water. I tried to mimmic in different ways the parents coming in, dark to light, light to dark, flicking the card to simulate the flap of a bird’s wing, encouraging her to open her mouth wide, I fed her as much as I could. She transforms into a different bird when begging, a funnel of plenty, she pooped physics defying poops. Then she settled down again.
After a while we managed to find a place to look after her on this bank holiday (How inconvenient a time to arrive). She looked tired as we headed out, perhaps the wounds too much, perhaps the food not right, yet while we drove, the box shuffled in my hand vibrantly once more. Again I tried to feed her as we approached the door marked closed. She opened wide and ate some mealworms, as the vet hospital door opened too. She now resides there, in knowing hands, with a second chance at spring.
Laid out along the lush green fields
stone rolls out among the bracken
for a hundred miles the tail trails
of a slumbering stone dragon.
Sitting enjoying a lovely evening moment with a margarita, blue skies and the best company. One moment later a glass is launched, shattered across the paving and Mapacho is covered in cointreau, tequila and lime. Pop!