The Tooth-Bird
Sun caught somethin’ glintin’ outside my squat. A bird on the wire—not your average pigeon. Eyes like polished stones, staring right through the brick. Felt like it was waitin’.
Next day, it was back. Same wire, same cold gaze. But now, somethin’ dangled from its beak—a tiny tooth. Since when do birds carry teeth?
By the third day, it brought friends. Dozens of ‘em, all watchin’ the building. Some had teeth too. Like a flock of tiny dentists.
Had to follow ‘em. They led me to the old tannery, stinkin’ of rot. Squeezed inside. The air was thick. And there—mountains of hair. Piles of it. Braids, clumps, wisps. The birds were weaving it into nests. Big, pulsing nests.
Don’t know what it means. Maybe they’re buildin’ somethin’ that ain’t meant to be seen. Or maybe those dandelion greens weren’t so fresh after all.
Either way, that Tuesday tasted like teeth and hair.
