Birds of Pray

E. B. Sorensen

A pair of pale hands linked together by hooked thumbs circles the sky. Not a cloud in sight. Fingers flap like feathered wings. They wane in and out of view. Turn from airplane-sized to a speck in the sky and back again.

The parking lot spans what seems like miles. No cars. Only white lines. The hands fly closer. The waft of air blows my jacket open.

There are vultures where I’m from. Sat up in treetops, rearing heads bright red like the blood in their gizzards. They ride the breeze and survey the landscape for dead and dying things.

I wrap my coat around me and turn away. Head towards home. The concrete keeps mixing with heat and turning to water. Great gusts of wind behind me blow my hair into my face.

When I was a child I wandered the dikes with my dogs. Keep them on a tight leash, my mother warned, or else the birds of prey will swoop down and take them away. Once, I heard of a baby that had been found on the side of a farm road. Mangled up and with eight holes on its shoulders where the talons clenched.

Hot air on concrete makes me thirsty. A mirage. I stop and shrug off my pack, pull out my bottle. I’m crouched down and drinking when the hands pinch the nape of my neck. They have short fingernails with a line of black dirt under each. I wore my heavy shoes today, so they couldn’t lift me, but now my heels are dragging on the ground.

I thrash around and bash at their knuckles with my fist. My feet lift off the ground. My pack’s still around one shoulder, so I swing it off and hit the hands with it. They do not flinch. All my things fall out to the ground and I’m too high up now to hear the impact.

The white-hot sun heats my back. It’s hard to breathe. I see the shadow of us on the concrete below. The parking lot is a lot smaller from up here. There’s not much else beyond it: just trees and black-roofed buildings on spans of grey.

If an animal attacks you, go for its eyeballs. Scratch and jab with all your might, my mother would say. But hands don’t have eyes, so what must I jab at?

The treetops get closer. We are lowering. A nest of white bones seems to be the target. The hands use their pinkies to perch on the edge and drop me inside. I land on my back. Thorns cover the bottom. They pierce my skin through my jeans.

The hands flap their fingers a few times before stretching them out and flying back to where we came. I peer over the edge of the nest. I know what to expect. But my heart still knocks. The thorns scrape my knees.

On the forest floor, barren and brown, lay the bodies before me. I see at least twenty bright white skulls and countless ribs. They come from those who have jumped, because death is better than suffering. Hands don’t have mouths after all.

Cahira by Mickyrose

2024; digital photo