‘They’ve lost their chick.’
‘Who have?’
‘The seagulls nesting on next door’s roof.’
‘Is that what they’re clamouring about?’
He prises my fingers from the clammy window handle, silently
pushes it closed. Walks down the stairs without looking back.
Through the frosted glass pane, the squawks are deafening.
The birds’ distress carving the air, striking the clouds. Echoing around my
hollow insides.
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