Sunday, October 24, 2010

Friday night, a bus-stop, completely dark. Our little group is speaking English. A solitary drunk staggers towards us. We shrink into a defensive circle, avoid eye contact. ‘The birds are flying from the north,’ he says, jabbing his finger at the night sky. We repeat the phrase like children. He goes on his way, steadily now, turns round just once: ‘Remember. The birds.’

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