Within my periphery, the intrusion of black, blue and white, tells me my magpie is back again. A heart-warming and overdue sight. A pair of them had been a regular feature of the garden over many years, but they’d been away for what seemed an age. It was almost like, COVID came and they, like everyone else, faded off and away. Through the front room window, I take a moment to enjoy his return as he hops across the wet grass and brings a small smile to my lips. The lawn without them had often left me deflated when I stretched out the window, hoping to spy on them. I came to accept they’d probably died, or such. The recent rain is still shimmering upon his wings. I think he is a thing of beauty. Birds have always bewitched me since I was small. I was always drawn to the wonder of wings. That something so delicate and light could equate to the ultimate power, the innate freedom they represent; to be able to fly away.

The howling wind starts to whip fallen leaves up into a moody waltz, it begins to beat against the window panes, tickling the roof’s slate tiles. They seem to clap at the growing momentum. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The sky darkens against the splatter of gold and crimson trees that trail off down the street. An amber leaf flies onto the grass and he hops over to inspect. I feel as if I am watching some noir movie, all shot in dark shades, a moody backdrop playing out before me, framed by my bay window. As if the bird can somehow feel my eyes upon it, it swiftly looks my way. His dark eyes seem to meet mine, as he cocks his head to the side and skips my way. He spreads his wings wide and begins a frenzied flapping like a phoenix, rising. I am mesmerised by his performance. The beating fastens as he hovers in the air, level with my face and then with a sudden gust the magpie torpedoes straight at me.
Catunk.
Body and bone smash hard against the glass, and a scream escapes me. I hear his body thud to the ground like an overripe mango meets the orchard’s earth. With bated breath, I peek over the ledge just enough to see his shiny head twisted backwards and I jerk away from the window. Shocked, a coldness creeps across my shoulder blades, as if the nail of a hag has been dragged across it. The words of the old woman begging last night spring to mind,
“Beware the birdies, little lady. For they like shiny things.”
She had cackled and hobbled off, her silvery strands flapping chaotically around her head as her silhouette was gobbled up by the dark. I had tried to shirk off the creepy sensation, but the unease lingered.
What a fucking weird thing to say!?
I tried to shrug it off and walk away but I couldn’t. Much like I can’t move right now. As if I’ve glanced at Medusa’s stone-cold stare. The clouds rumble as if a hungry giant is stirring. Everything is surreal and dark all at once. The rain starts up again, falling like rubber bullets against the glass, tapping overhead on the tiles. Mother Nature’s lullaby. My favourite sound. Yet the angle of the black neck tugs at the base of my skull. Something is wrong. Something ominous has begun.