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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Monday, 13 February 2012

Call to Kitsune

A flock of birds has taken up residence in my head. 
They are building nests. 
Messes of twig and moss and leaf. 
They feel safe here since the Fox left. 
Chattering their anxieties as fast transmitted urgent songs. 
False alarms - 
The hyper alert fears of prey creatures.

The Fox has gone.

Last summer he devoured the chorus. 
Solitary and hungry, eyes ever alert. 
He made his own successes
And feared nothing (but perhaps his own inadequacy
Of which he was only intermittently aware).

Now the birds twitter and puff their feathers. 
Soon the young ones will arrive. 
Eggs fill with promises –promises! - of more chatterers. 
Hatched, the parents dart. And dart. 
Busy with baby beaks and their own endless hunger.  
The cycle is insatiable.  
Fledging and feeding, feeding and fledging. 
And always this noisy nervousness. 

Mouths fed by the wary until they too jabber
The calls.  Breeding.  Feeding.  Needing. 
How they stuff my head with their interminable din. 
Not a single branch survives without a feathered visitor.

Come Fox. 
The feast is laid for your return.

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