There are magpies on the walls and windowsills, clacking like clothes pegs in a wooden box, spreading the news of war and weather. There is, of course, nothing good to tell, and the prognosis is for worse and worse, but their voices themselves are as comforting as windmills, implacably grinding the grain of imminent disaster to fine, fine powder. I strike up the oven to bake bread and cakes, and the magpies strike up their chorus of woe and wonder. And although there is no water, there are the world’s sweet and salty tears: and although there are too many mouths, there are enough hard consequences for every single one of us. There’s a magpie in in the kitchen, in the mirror, and in the immediate future. He places the dark rainbow of his portentous wing lightly on my shoulder, and whispers in my ear like old bones snapping.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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