Category: bc

“Natural Behaviours” – Ruth Daniell

Witchcraft

On Wednesday you find a white-crowned sparrow
dead on the front step. On Thursday a halo of grey

feathers on the front lawn. You think mean thoughts
about the neighbour’s cat. On Friday you see him,

a handsome silver-coloured fellow dashing
under the wet cedars. He has no collar or bell

and he probably kills for fun. Studies report
that cats don’t only kill when hungry

and they are the number one killer of wild birds.
You have been watching the sparrows for weeks,

cheered by their haphazard foraging, their hopping,
scratch-scratching on the ground. You listened

to their thin, sweet whistle. You admired their black-
and-white heads, their pale beaks, their bodies

chubby and energetic. Wednesday’s dead bird
seemed diminished: suddenly slimmer, elegant,

none of the pleasant enthusiasm of breath and noise.
Thursday’s halo of feathers just felt unfair, obvious:

You hate that birds die. You hate that cats kill them.
But you do not hate cats. No, you hate how difficult it is

to feel good about the ways you love the world—
selectively, prejudiced towards the beautiful

and the gentle, towards the ones that remind you
least of yourself, or most. It is nesting season now

and the birds are tending quietly to their young
and you think, If they can do it, so can I.

You rub your rounding belly and you wonder.
Some conservation experts recommend all cats

be kept indoors. Yes, you think. Save the birds!
Let them all return to their carefully hidden nests.

But what do you know of feline happiness? It is
only an accident of desire that you love the birds

first and foremost, that you have spent so much time
imagining their lofty fealty to the sky, learning

their modest dedication to twig and egg and song.
It takes very little for you to feel guilty about the cats

allowed only limited natural behaviours, felt mice
and braided yarns, chicken-flavoured snacks.

When you see a cat looking out of a sun-filled window,
you do not know if you witness your own longing

or the creature’s—if you fail, as you so often do,
to forget your own feelings, to see the world

as another soul might: all that exquisite light,
that darkness, the life fluttering in the trees.

 

these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the work of Nick Liefhebber

“The Ice Show” by Erin Flegg

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The vet only had two appointments for the day, morning or afternoon, so I took the 3:45. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing I could handle until after the ice show was done.

When I arrived at the rink it was full of parents stringing twinkle lights and plastering the boards with black paper and clear hockey tape, setting the scene, and by 2 p.m. when the lights went down the place was packed. The first small group teetered out onto the ice and I was suddenly emotional, my eyes misting over. It happened again as I watched my oldest senior skater perform, in a dress that clearly wasn’t made for her, a routine we finished three days ago. The salty intrusion confused me for a minute. I had been so relieved to be done with the season, my official ties with this town dissolved, that it was unexpected. They’re good kids. I didn’t want them to think I was abandoning them.

When the final number was over the other coach and I were called to center ice. I didn’t listen to what the announcer said and instead spent my last few minutes on the ice looking at each kid. All winter, so many hours spent just keeping track of them all. The announcer had to call Ava’s name several times before she heard it and rushed over to grab two bouquets and skate them over to us. Lisa hugged her so I hugged her too, but I worried it was the wrong thing to do. I had spent more time shouting across the rink at her than saying nice things when she was close by. Pay attention, stay in your position, leave that other kid alone. But maybe she felt just as strange, had shot her hand up in the air when whatever parent bought the flowers asked who wanted to present them, eager as usual for any chance to stand out, forgetting for a moment that she didn’t actually like me very much. We assembled for a group photo and I squatted next to one of the smallest kids, holding one hand while she used the other to snake broken bits of Doritos through the cage on her helmet and into her stained mouth.

I told Lisa I had to go, grabbed my backpack and walked across the street to the vet. It was just a small white house with a sandwich board out front on the weekends when they were in town. I walked in still holding the bouquet of flowers and worried the vet tech would think I’d got them for the cat. I didn’t want her to think I was the kind of person who would buy a bouquet of flowers and bring them with me to put down my cat. I tried to hold on to the flat, easy feeling from the end of the show, skip like a stone over this part, but my partner arrived with eyes swollen and the cat in his plastic crate and I sank back down. I lifted him onto the exam table and he flopped to one side, too weak to be either curious or upset. The vet shaved a small patch on his front paw, slid the needle in and he was gone.

these words by Erin Flegg were inspired by the work of Kelsy Gossett

“Tinaja,” by Ruth Daniell

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The views expressed in the texts do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.

 

Sometimes you wish you could forget your body,
walk away from its needs and all the ways you believe

it fails you. You are not always kind. Just now
you are scrambling up a canyon. The rock is red

and the sky is blue. This is your first time in the desert
and you had not expected to be so in love

but you are. You love the deep blue sky
and the yellow and orange and red sandstone

and the creosote bush and the Joshua trees and
you note with curiosity that the beauty doesn’t

make you less aware of your small self,
it doesn’t take you away from your body. No,

instead your body is a marvel, too, a marvel
that carried you to these other marvels, the sky,

the rock, the creosote bush and the Joshua trees and
now, finally, to the tinaja, this natural basin

carved by wind and filled with rare desert rain. It is
uncommonly wonderful: cool and green and quiet.

Your own body took you here. It is wonderful, too,
to notice your body in this way, when so often

you notice it only when you are hungry or thirsty
or tired or too hot or too cold or you have to pee

and you’re miles from the nearest rest stop.
Your body will be inescapable for your entire life

but you will not be ungrateful. You will press
your hands onto the smooth sandstone

and feel where the wind has come and gone
and will come again and slowly change the world.

 

these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the art of Sonia Alins Miguel