Spring 2024 - Recrudescence
“Little Fluff”
shuddering, his wings trembling open, he parted his beak for more. And then more. And more. This bird, as small as my palm, gulped and gnawed and chewed on. A man, utterly useless, and to remain a nobody to this story, was traipsing towards the hotel’s Main Reception, and just as irrelevantly, asked me, ‘What – what’s that?’
‘It’s a Cinke – a bird - hurt – ‘
‘It has only,’ his voice was archly prim, ‘fallen from its nest’.
At that tonal reproach from him, I, at my best in a panic,
yelled at him in Hungarian, a ‘Rack Off!’
He did.
From the red napkin in my other pocket, I built a paper shelter for the bird. Shaped it into a triangular tent, secured it with pinecones on its edges against the wind. I lifted the birdling’s trembly little no-weight body. And placed him into the red tent. Put around him more apple crumbs. He reached to peck some. Then closed his eyes becalmed. And fell asleep.
I got up. And left. I cursed God for everything. For all of it.
And on into the night.
Came morning. Threw on a top, slacks, and ran first thing to
see if the bird, oh please, oh please, at least let him be there.
The tent-tomb was empty ... and no sign.
I turned blank. To my rage at least the one word came; it was, WAIT. The bird may have recovered. Or been reclaimed by his mother. Or an animal ate it. With every guess, I was more outraged for this tiny thing, more lividly hurt than by any other loss remembered. 119
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