Suzannah V. Evans

Quick as a Moth

Quick as a moth, rises the bird in the air, all rush of wings and glancing of sun from black feathers. The small shell tucked in its beak, barely visible, caught between the bird’s breath and the sky, will remember this moment as a hurtle towards earth, a violence, a scream of air, a tumble, although the memory will be short (a whisper of a second of a minute) because the landing will break it, crack the shell into glimmers of white and blue and silver, revealing slick mollusc which the bird’s tongue will slink into greedily, silkily.