Feeding Dreams
parasol
‘You shouldn’t feed them,’ people tell her. ‘They’re full of lice and they spread disease. Besides, they’ll become dependent on you.’ But they have it all wrong. She’s dependent on them. She provides the bread crumbs; they provide the cure. They pick away the anxieties that infest her like lice. She looks up, squinting watery-eyed against the sun and wind, watching them snatch crumbs from the air, effortlessly, daintily, and she feels a connection with the birds and with the wind. They make her feel lighter, less weighed down by care and worry, less earth-bound.
She constructs an hour made of feathers and the pensive cries of feeding birds, and lives, almost weightless, in that hour all afternoon. ‘You shouldn’t feed them,’ people say, and she smiles and nods and doesn’t tell them that birds are feeding her.
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