“Tony doesn’t like it in here”, my mother says as she sits stoutly on the edge of my bed in her guestroom. Tony’s feathers are ruffling and he is gently but persistently pecking at her hand. “I can always tell, you know. When he does that, he is somewhere he does not want to be”. She leaves the room to clear the kitchen dishes, feed the dog, get the kettle on. I am left wondering…how does she know so much about a bird? That by a small gesture and ruffling of feathers, all is clear to her? Does she know this much about me?
0 comments on “Tony”