I live on an island.
There are grapevines on the hills behind the house, and next-door’s chickens in the backyard. They’re waiting for our figs to ripen. I can see them, standing below the trees, staring up sadly at the fruit. Once the figs are ready, of course, the chooks will realise they do have wings after all, and will soar fruitwards, making a huge fuss, as if they’d done something extraordinary.
There are two roosters. I’ve been cursing them all week because they seem to have suddenly decided to crow, in duet, from 3.30 am, and they don’t stop until dusk. But this morning there are very small, very fluffy, very black chicks scurrying through the grass like beetles. All rooster misbehaviour is forgiven.
I should have been working but instead I’ve been standing at the kitchen sink, binoculars at the ready, watching and clucking.