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Feb 24, 2012 20:33
When I landed on the top of a lamppost in the London dusk it was peeing with rain. This was just my luck. I had taken the form of blackbird, a sprightly fellow with a bright yellow beak
and jet-black plumage. Within seconds I was as bedraggled a fowl as ever hunched its wings in Hampstead. Flicking my head from side to side, I spied a large beech tree. Leaves moldered at its foot --it had already been stripped clean by the November winds--but the thick sprouting of its branches offered some protection from the wet. I flew over to it, passing above a lone car that purred its way along the wide suburban street. Behind high walls and the evergreen foliage of their gardens, the ugly white facades of several sizable villas shone through the dark like the facts of the dead.
Well, perhaps it was my mood that made it seem like that. Five thing were bothering me. For
a start the dull ache that comes with every physical manifestation was already begining.
I could feel it in my feathers. Changing form would keep the pain at bay for a time, but might also draw attention to me at a critical stage of the operation. Until I was sure of my surrounding, a bird to remain. The second things was the weather. Enough said.
Third, I'd forgotten the limitations of material bodies. I had an itch just above my beak, and kept futilely trying to scratch it wing. Fourth that kid. I had a lot of question about him. Who was he? Why did he have a death wish? How would I get even with him before he died for subjecting me to this assignment? News travels fast, and I was bound to take some abuse for scurrying around on behalf of
a scrap like him.