43 Beth Hartley
Trappings I thought it was a mistake when they started to roost in my skirts. Each circle a fresh constraint, creeping higher every time. Now I am surrounded, dressed in wing and feather; a rustling and chirping when evening starts to fall. And if I stand quite still, not moving any muscle, I will remain a pillar of birds. Nothing ruffled, no feathers fluttered; a night’s rest where I stand. So many species, I started learning names: Robin, Sparrow, Chaffinch, Wagtail, a fledging sense of great self-doubt. As time has passed and perches fill, the birds that visit, bigger still: Blackbird, Starling, Raven, Crow, aggravation, anxiety and loathing now. If I move I will scatter wings to the wind; become surrounded by a nest of noise. Never mind what’s left behind; the litter of a hundred little lives. Some will screech and others sing, I’m not sure I can remain so unstirring for much longer.
