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He was a twitcher. Not the moving kind, but the still kind. The kind that watches birds and catalogues them.
He was stalking a Superb Fairy-wren, which he knew well from his thumbed books. He’d been keeping an eye on a female that was flitting within the wattle, letting out a reeling song.
Edging forward on his stomach, he’d managed to spot her nest. It was dome-shaped, made of grass and cobwebs. The delicate intricacy of it removed his breath. His prey, the female, was lighting between the entrance and the dense undergrowth, pealing out her sharp bell Continue reading »
