For the Birds

A naked man emerged from the hedges. Parted the curtains of his trench coat. Green tea, green tea, he said. He had brought green tea from far away. Taped to the lining. Little bags of tea. Cheaper, since, you know, the trade wars. Tatra wondered how the man sweated into the tea. But he took the chance. 

Upon arriving back at his country abode, he heated the water in the kettle. Hello, please take a seat, said the kettle, I’ll be with you in a moment. The kettle was in fine fettle. It knew how to warm the cockles. Very soon the green tea was fermenting in his mug. Tatra began to ponder his great grandfather, now out to pasture. The liquorice twists of his pipe. The rusk beside the fire. 

Something was sprouting. His fingers were feeling twiggy. Up ahead, the lights. Armed guards stopping the cars, sectioning off the road, looking for something. The tea. 

Tatra moved into the forest waiting for something mythic. A goat or a ram, maybe. But it was a forest not a mountain. The forest was full of birds. The birds had turquoise feet. They plopped them up and down. The brighter the feet, the greater the mate. The blue green feet. That was something special.

I’m not a little machine. I’m organic nature. Yes of course, said the birds marching their turquoise feet faster. His toes twisted into roots. His hand. It was sprouting twigs. Little paradise buds on the end of his fingers. The birds pecked them. His scream was muffled, but his juice was sappy.