Siren Song Of The Glued Thrush

Oct 31, 2009

The sound sifts up through the tree tops and, tired by their long swoop from the north, they swing in to its familiar beauty, not noting the thin pitch of alarm that was tainting the flute. Too late they sense the fear in the eyes of their friends whose limbs are strained to breaking. With a final flicker of wings they alight among family on death’s glue.

Delicious when lightly grilled, served with ‘Herbes de Provence’ and an under-rated rosé from the Var. So say the villagers, who return their re-caged decoys to the shed and retire for the evening’s pastis. The birds, now silent, flutter briefly in the dark. By my own silence I am conspirator to torture and murder.

For more about this practise, see

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