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As I was having a mid-morning snooze, I found myself startled awake by the most incredible noise. It took me a while to realise that what I was hearing was the call of a magpie. Well, I say "magpie" but in fact what I should have said is "magpies" for there were three of them, fighting in the car park. Now anyone who has heard (and recognised) the call of a magpie will realise just how loud three of them going at it can be. For those that don't really know, a magpie sounds not unlike one of those old-fashioned, wooden football rattles ... albeit a rattle being operated by someone with a supernatural abilitly to control their wrist.
Now magpies are, without a doubt, my favourite bird being, as they are, crows in very fine clothing; one thing I've noticed about them is that they tend not to fight amongst themselves, no matter how many are gathered. This morning, however, these three magpies were having the most spectacular fight; feathers were, quite literally, flying. There are several interesting things about this fight: firstly, it took place almost entirely at ground level; secondly, there seemed to be no specific object of conflict, no food, no attempt to drive one or more of the birds away, nothing; and finally, it seemed that each of the three was fighting the other two, there seemed to be no sides. A most peculiar fight indeed, and for all the jabbing of beaks and pinning with claws, there was not a drop of blood to stain the white breast of any of the three ... most peculiar.
Such an unusual incident this was, that it felt like a portent of something momentous, though I've no idea what. Perhaps, had I been born a few thousand years ago, I might have had some clue; as it is, I was born somewhere between forty one and forty two years ago and I have no such skill. Which means of course, that when whatever is augured to happen happens, I shall blink in startlement and exclaim "ah, so that's what they were a portent of.
Now magpies are, without a doubt, my favourite bird being, as they are, crows in very fine clothing; one thing I've noticed about them is that they tend not to fight amongst themselves, no matter how many are gathered. This morning, however, these three magpies were having the most spectacular fight; feathers were, quite literally, flying. There are several interesting things about this fight: firstly, it took place almost entirely at ground level; secondly, there seemed to be no specific object of conflict, no food, no attempt to drive one or more of the birds away, nothing; and finally, it seemed that each of the three was fighting the other two, there seemed to be no sides. A most peculiar fight indeed, and for all the jabbing of beaks and pinning with claws, there was not a drop of blood to stain the white breast of any of the three ... most peculiar.
Such an unusual incident this was, that it felt like a portent of something momentous, though I've no idea what. Perhaps, had I been born a few thousand years ago, I might have had some clue; as it is, I was born somewhere between forty one and forty two years ago and I have no such skill. Which means of course, that when whatever is augured to happen happens, I shall blink in startlement and exclaim "ah, so that's what they were a portent of.
