This story was created by staring at all four cards. The image of the man up the tree appeared in seconds.
Migration
An anecdote about sheep gave me the bravery to climb the tree.
Somebody at work said that even in modern times sheep are allowed to graze on any piece of common land. This is because those strips of green wedged between houses and local shops do not belong to the council, or some unknown government consortium. Instead they belong to the people of this nation. They are yours to do with as you please.
So up the tree I went.
An oak was a perfect choice. Branches wide enough to plant your foot on, and thick leaves with the smell of cut grass warmer than an eternal jumper. After memorising the layout, I found a place to relax.
My mask is shop bought, with brown foam that covers your eyes, and a beak that extends over your nose. The string goes tight round the back of my head like a joint of meat. I made wings from a pair of tights sliced down the middle, and they cling in a glove style up to my elbows. Sugar paper feathers run along the seams, stuck on with PVA glue. Several gaps from those lost to the wind did not spoil the illusion.
The view of the park consists of the tops of picnic baskets and footballs arching through the air. The foliage muffle the thuds and the munching of sandwiches. Most people do not see me up here. Those that do hurry on.
Someone from the park authority tried to beckon me down yesterday. They wore hi-vis, and spoke about the police. I replied with a practiced spiel about sheep and no law against climbing. No law against costume. That did the trick.
My wife tried to get me down this afternoon. I scrambled to the higher branches, and treated her like any other threat. Her presence reminded me of bleeping machines and needles in the arms. Catheters and midnight blood tests. Up here my biggest concern are caterpillars eating my bedding.
Still no solution for the cold hug of the night. But when the dark drives the other park goes away, the stars hang above me like reverse eggs. The whole universe becomes my nest, with the world below either irrelevant, or a danger.
My shadow is magnificent in the moonlight.
