…what do you do with them?
Why this solemn little robin? Well. This morning around eight with the sun just rising. I’d been up an hour inhaling milky tea as I usually do before work. I was breaking up stale chocolate rice crackers – I can’t eat anything with much flavour in the morning – and browsing the internet. Low-level brain activity stuff. Soon I’d have to be up and getting ready for work. A few more minutes, please.
There came a little thudding noise. Unsure of what had caused it, I went to investigate wondering if D had knocked his head in his sleep or was getting clumsily up. No.
So I drained my tea and went to make another. There in the kitchen was the robin, thrumming its wings frantically against the window. It sensed me coming in, stopped to look up at me from the ledge.
We keep the window cracked to air out the kitchen when we dry our clothes, and the bird must have slipped in looking for warmth. Strange for such a flittery creature. The bird of Christmas, the bird that doesn’t leave when the winter comes, the tiny bobbing thing that shows its heartbeat on its chest. I moved towards it, hoping to guide it downwards and out the window, but it made it out alone.
And then of course, I wonder, what do I make of you, little peeplit? If I’d put you in a novel, I’d be told to scratch you out, for being so unrealistic. Yet there you were, in my warm kitchen, beating your wings like a hummingbird, like a metaphor. But you were only yourself, I suppose.