She didn’t turn to see which small boy had thrown a stone at her, didn’t crane her neck to read the insults scratched into her bark. When she first moved in, she endured months of casual cruelty like a tree would – without flinching. She gathered they weren’t altogether unhappy at having excused themselves and exited from the story. She felt the gentle grip of their talons like an ache in an amputated limb. Between shifts she conferred with the ghosts of vultures that loomed in her high branches. At dawn she saw the crows off and welcomed the bats home. Chapter one: Where do old birds go to die?
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