Wednesday, April 19, 2017

A Little Bird Told Me

8.30am. I'm out on the back veranda for a smoke. Sam has left for work. It is a gentle, cool morning, with promises of improvement, I can just feel it in the air.

An airplane flies overhead, I wonder where they are going? I look through my rejected poems so I can at least post something. 6 completed poems, all rejects for good reason.

I swear a bird is saying my name. Christian Fletcher. That's funny, I think. Bird's a clever how they can mimic. Christian Fletcher. There is is again. Christian Fletcher. Where is the bird, I try to see it in the tree.

That is uncanny.

Christian Fletcher. Christian Fletcher. It is uncanny. I start to message Sam, as I start to type, What are you doing? I realise it is Sam and that infernal security camera with its monitoring capabilities and its speaker.

Grrrr. A small part of me was disappointed there wasn't a talking bird.

Sam sends me a link to travel insurance. And then three questions on which to base my research.

Look at those, the bird says.

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