On my front lawn stood an old oak tree. The leaves budded in spring and drifted, sad and brown, to the grass below in autumn. Small bugs crawled along its bark as dormice and squirrels scuttled across its great base. And one September, as the earth was getting ready for its hibernation, a flock of birds began to nest in its branches.
They were horrible, predatory creatures. No longer did dormice run between the bushes or woodlice thrive on the bark. The colour faded from my garden in the days following their arrival and it darkened my spirits.
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I decided to cut down the tree, feeling too afraid that any harm might come to me if I tried to get rid of the birds directly. I know I behaved like a coward, but something about those birds instilled a deep fear within me. Maybe it was their dark, dirty feathers I found scattered across the grass. Or was it their piercing eyes that stared down at me, as though they were deciding how to best deter me from their home in their tree?
When I woke up the following morning and did not hear their screeching cry, I knew I had been successful. They must have found a new garden, a new oak tree, I believed. And so life returned to its usual rhythm. The colour returned to my lawn, even as the leaves fell and the chill crept in. But even though my surroundings returned to normal, I still felt them.
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As a soft pattering on my roof. As a distant black smudge on the pavement. I picked out black feathers from my meals and heard them peck at the window. Although I never heard that horrific cry, I knew. I swore they were still there.
Deep in sleep one night, I dreamt of the birds. I dreamt of my legs contorting like roots deep into the soil and my arms stretching and bending as branches high above me. Sitting on the highest branch in their nest of bones were the birds, pecking and scraping at me. They bit me and my sap flowed like blood and trickled down my fingers of twigs. My leaves fell as they died and I died and the birds cried their awful cry.
No longer can I hear the voices of my family and friends. I can’t pick out the features of strangers I meet in town. It’s all just dirty, black feathers and that horrible, horrible screech.
