Moulting

All the birds are moulting. Every last one. There’s sparrowfluff caught in my deckchair, and the feeder’s full of discarded gull bits. Even the crows have left boring black pinions in my rosemary.

There's no crappier-looking creature than a moulting bird -- any moulting bird.  Well, maybe a blobfish; that's little more than a booger with eyes.  (Hee-hee.  I said "booger.")

There’s no crappier-looking creature than a moulting bird — any moulting bird. Well, maybe a blobfish; that’s little more than a booger with eyes. (Hee-hee. I said “booger.”)

This morning, I awoke to a loud pecking at my window, and a drift of down blowing in on the breeze. I’m not sure whether that down came from the crow, or from some other bird, but Mr. Crow certainly wasn’t looking his best. Check out those bare patches! Poor bugger’s shedding more down than a cheap duvet!

A quick observation, inspired by the sight of fifty sparrows trying to squeeze into a space no bigger than a paperback laid on its face: everything looks revolting, multiplied by fifty and crawling all over itself. Picture a nest of feathered termites: disgusting! I mean, even puppies would look nasty, in that context. Think of them, all fuzzy and eyeless, mewling, tiny tails wagging, feet paddling, as they swim the sea of writhing dogflesh! Worse still, kittens, with their needle-teeth bared, long tails snaking in and out — it’d be like stumbling upon a garter snake orgy…with teeth.

A garter snake orgy.

With teeth.

That is all.

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