"Maybe all birds are mythical birds. They at least have the vibe of creatures that are make-believe: you can imagine a child sketching out a ragged outline and blurting the monosyllable, bird. That could be their creation myth."
I have been seeking out birds of all shapes and colours, breeding habits and habitats. Some of them are clad in invented feathers and fly through the air of the imagination. You are invited to the train carriage, to twitch for mythical birds.
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"Maybe all birds are mythical birds. They at least have the vibe of creatures that are make-believe: you can imagine a child sketching out a ragged outline and blurting the monosyllable, bird. That could be their creation myth."
I have been seeking out birds of all shapes and colours, breeding habits and habitats. Some of them are clad in invented feathers and fly through the air of the imagination. You are invited to the train carriage, to twitch for mythical birds.
"I remembered that something like this happened once to the poet Edward Thomas. He was in the hills of Gloucestershire in 1914. June 24: the express train drew up there unwontedly, as the poet later wrote; the platform of the village station was empty, the heat was intense, and it was so quiet that the sound of a man clearing his throat on board the train was remarkable."
I have been coming and going from this train carriage, which, even though it never moves, seems to serve as a base for travel. Like a station, I reckon. Join me on another set of journeys to and fro my home in the bush.
In A Train Carriage, Going Nowhere
"Maybe all birds are mythical birds. They at least have the vibe of creatures that are make-believe: you can imagine a child sketching out a ragged outline and blurting the monosyllable, bird. That could be their creation myth."
I have been seeking out birds of all shapes and colours, breeding habits and habitats. Some of them are clad in invented feathers and fly through the air of the imagination. You are invited to the train carriage, to twitch for mythical birds.
