Birds in the Blue Night
From our UK edition
Not birds I know, dank-feathered, inky-eyed, spinning in a ring until one breaks free, flies in. And already I am out of bed and on the path to my father’s room, the whole house sleeping but for him, his old face stunned in the white light webbed on the wall and I say Dad, the bird in my room. Each time he rises, my shadow on the carpet follows where he passes, watches in the doorway as he softly coos and scoops the bird into his palms, strange trophy thrown out into the night again.