By Marcella Robertson
I love birds, said I to the cat, curled around a sparrow under the rose bush in Mother’s garden. The bird was grounded from a fractured wing. Together they, bird’s breath and cat’s tail, rose and fell. Said the cat, As do I.
She spoke with her mouth full, which I’d been told not to do. Why not? Because it is rude – which good children are not. I reminded the cat so. She spat a mouthful of feathers at my feet and apologized. They were blackened by cat saliva and lay in heavy clumps on the ground.