breeding season

It was about two weeks and two years ago, on a hot winter’s day, August twenty-something, that I found myself in the park. Just like I’d done most days for the previous two and a half years, I’d leave my house make two rights a left and cross the road, the main intention being to cut across the park. I estimate, perhaps, that I’d save two minutes each way. That amounts to twenty minutes a week.

I remember being surprised at the temperature, ‘It must be in the twenties,’ I thought to myself. I continued.

As I passed between the, soon to be removed for the summer season, goalposts, I realised that next week, when the twenty-second spring of my days finally arrives, the magpies will be in breeding…




Two black and white feathered flying machines of destruction dove and swooped. Viciously and maliciously they set their trajectory, with me at the centre. I felt the broken skin on the back of my ear, I felt soft and fleshy, my eyes doubly so, delicious treats for these grayscale monsters, they would not become.

I ran for my life.


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