A spring evening
Its sounds. Birdsong: the rapid trill of a blackbird, the tri-tones of a collared dove. it's a curious thing how they used to be a passing rarity and then, one day, they were everywhere. I remember as a kid being frustrated that I hadn't ticked them off my list and now they perch, absurdly large, on the bird table. Then again, I wouldn't have thought I'd have had a bird table, or a garden to have one in, that wasn't the plan. There hasn't really been a plan, to be fair. But of all the plans there weren't, this certainly wasn't one.
Distant traffic, there’s always a motorbike overdoing it somewhere. I’m sure it makes them happy but, it’s a pain in the arse. Motors, always motors, like that bloke gunning the Merc at fifty in a twenty zone this afternoon. I’m sure you’re enjoying it. No-one else is. The curious solipsism engendered by engines. Never really seen it myself, self-absorbed enough already without needing props. Someone somewhere is taking pot-shots at starlings with an air rifle, I see one fall with an astonishing abruptness. The immediate extinction of life. Cackling on a branch one second, the next a packet of feathers, a cat’s toy on the turf. The gun makes a curious popping sound. I suddenly realise I've heard it a few times. Pop. Gravity. A small thump. The starlings go mental and so do I, my voice is one of the sounds of the evening, roaring knock that shit off. They do. I wonder who they were.
A late bee is feeding greedily on lavender, then stumbling drunkenly home. Someone’s fixing a quad bike. It's absurdly loud. They rev it once, twice, three times. Apparently satisfied, they stop. I’m grateful they were able to sort it so quickly. I can hear shouts of children from a street over. Damien’s a cunt, apparently, and Anne-Marie’s a slut, a fucking slut. I’m sure she isn’t. Damien might well be a cunt, I imagine I’ll never know, it's odd how many insults fixate on female sexuality. But I'm boring myself with these tired observations, I think my best ideas are behind me, nothing came of them. The day closes in.
Distant traffic, there’s always a motorbike overdoing it somewhere. I’m sure it makes them happy but, it’s a pain in the arse. Motors, always motors, like that bloke gunning the Merc at fifty in a twenty zone this afternoon. I’m sure you’re enjoying it. No-one else is. The curious solipsism engendered by engines. Never really seen it myself, self-absorbed enough already without needing props. Someone somewhere is taking pot-shots at starlings with an air rifle, I see one fall with an astonishing abruptness. The immediate extinction of life. Cackling on a branch one second, the next a packet of feathers, a cat’s toy on the turf. The gun makes a curious popping sound. I suddenly realise I've heard it a few times. Pop. Gravity. A small thump. The starlings go mental and so do I, my voice is one of the sounds of the evening, roaring knock that shit off. They do. I wonder who they were.
A late bee is feeding greedily on lavender, then stumbling drunkenly home. Someone’s fixing a quad bike. It's absurdly loud. They rev it once, twice, three times. Apparently satisfied, they stop. I’m grateful they were able to sort it so quickly. I can hear shouts of children from a street over. Damien’s a cunt, apparently, and Anne-Marie’s a slut, a fucking slut. I’m sure she isn’t. Damien might well be a cunt, I imagine I’ll never know, it's odd how many insults fixate on female sexuality. But I'm boring myself with these tired observations, I think my best ideas are behind me, nothing came of them. The day closes in.
posted by Matt at 3:16 AM
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