The evening draws on. Some swifts fly in and out of our eaves. I take my glass, stand, and walk towards the kitchen door. Some dead leaves rustle underneath our hydrangea, beside the garden wall.
Strange, there’s no breeze tonight, not even a zephyr. Can’t be an animal. Must be a bird, I decide, a baby bird, poor thing, with a broken wing…
Blood Beasts by HJ Furl and Adam Carlton