(“Birds” by Charity Larrison.)
They are the only color in these dark streets, some nights. Some days. Everything grimed with soot, everything dark and broken, and here she is, plumage bright, feathers flowing behind her as she runs, jumps over debris like a hurdler. They call her the bird-girl, and some people say it’s good luck to see her. Better luck still if she sees *you*, if she smiles at you. Best luck if you see the bird. He tracks her overhead, rarely landing – when he lands, it’s always on her, never touching anything else. Wonder if he’s really part of this world, that bird. Or if he’s from another, and she’s his gateway.
Wonder if she came first, or the bird did.
