I am staring at a circle of feathers. I am standing at my bedroom window and staring down at a perfect circle of feathers, and I know that I have missed something amazing. No, not something amazing, something so ordinary, something that happens every day in at least one back garden in almost every town in almost every county. It is evidence of death, of life, of survival. It is amazing.
I want to smoke. I want to celebrate that death with a cigarette just like I celebrate every drink with a cigarette; like I celebrate sex with a post-coital cigarette; like I celebrate a long plane journey with a cigarette, rushing past the baggage claim for the doors of the terminal and breathing in the hot, wet, reeking air; or, like I celebrate waking up in the morning with a cigarette. I am saying: it is evidence of death, of life, of survival. Smoking is a celebration, is a celebration of life.
So, I open my bedroom window and climb out on to the conservatory roof, from my shirt pocket I take a pre-rolled cigarette and light it. I am still staring at a circle of feathers.
In a nearby field a sparrowhawk perches in the old sycamore, it shifts a little from tallon to tallon, its belly full.
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