Monday

A decapitated carcass is at my feet. At first glance it’s not obvious the head is missing, or what the body is besides some feathers; the chest is pealed back like raw curtains and a nation of ants are at work. The site/sight, while impressive in its own gruesome, practical way, is too hard to stomach for any sustained period. Its missing head, the march of ants on offal, the white feathers scattered among the bark like confetti or the forgotten skin of a burst piñata—I realise all these details slowly, reassembling the bird’s body from the glances I take between curiosity and sickness.

A few hours later, when he arrives, I ask if he’s seen the bird. The dead one, I add, in an attempt to clarify the question. ‘Probably a chough, I’ve been shooting the bastards with an air rifle and tossing them at the tip, but I may have left one about.’