The ornithology gallery
A case of greenshank The light is quiet and used-up, faded by distance. Evening light after rain, transparent grey, yellow to the west. A dusting of gold on the air. A loch, silvery and perfectly flat. Gauzy mountains slope down to the water, floating in the pause before dusk begins to thicken. Close to the glass, two wire-legged birds are composed in an arrangement of twigs. Their feathers are sleek, stippled like lichen and stone, their black eyes alert. They have turned their heads. There is no sign of disturbance, but something out of sight on the shore has caught their attention. Three young men are tying up a rowing boat. They will gather their hunting bags and their guns and set off down the track to a lodge where a gong will be struck for dinner. One will remark that the sky has cleared and tomorrow will be fine. And this is what two of them will talk about when they return years later: the gauzy mountains, the light on the loch. And how the next day was fine, but by then they were on the train, rattling south. The birds will never leave for their wintering grounds.
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