{A concussion recovery post}
I saw the kingfisher for the first time today, and I cried.
He flew onto the dead ash tree from somewhere downstream, and I recognized him by the dart of his wing and the shape of his head.
I can’t remember the word for that shape of a bird’s head.
Russet. Ruff. Crown. Crest.
Crest. That’s it.
I find it by slow association.
So many words seem to have flown clear out of my brain. Or perhaps not out, but somewhere further in, behind a wall of protection. Like gates shut up for fear of flood.
They are in there and I have to coax them out, or sit silent enough on a stump till I seem part of the riverbank to them.
Nothing now is on demand in my brain.
It’s a live stream, and I have to wait for the current to bring me what I seek.
Only sometimes the crested bird flashes into view before I even know how much I needed to see him.
I reach for the camera in my pocket, but he sees my elbow twitch and is gone before I capture proof of his presence.
There are just bare grey branches and the blue spring sky, and the river, quivering.
~
Lindsey
S.D.G.
