Bacon thief

7 03 2010

It’s another night. The birds have stopped singing and all you can hear is cicadas and some animal not caring to hide himself anymore; it knows I can’t see him and that’s all that matters for him, because the reality is that I am the only predator in this hushed night, but all there is in my head is the perfume of flowers carried by the nightly breeze. The little animal knows all of this, and it’s confident, and if I let nature pervade me a little longer, I maybe will be rewarded with the identity of this little companion.

Earlier on I was cooking, bacon as it happens, and as soon as I dropped a hot little rasher on the plate a kookaburra came, and in an instant snatched the bit and flew away , in a flutter of feathers, without ever touching the iron table.

As I was wondering what had just happened the flying thief sat perched high on a branch, some ten metres away from me, helping itself on its spoils of war, savouring the flavour of that hot greasy streak of bacon, heavily enhanced by adrenaline and satisfaction. I bet his bacon tastes way better than mine.

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