The butcher bird flew on to the fence, and watched us as we pulled out weeds. The roses didn't seem to care much about the riff-raff that surrounded them, the cobbler's pegs and sticky milk plants and thistley things. A moth appeared, fluttering on the surface of some newly exposed soil, and the butcher bird swooped for the morsel. Our friend Cameron also watched us, commenting regularly on how he must get down into the garden sometime, but not right now. His memory is unravelling, leaving sentences all over the earth in front of us, released again and again because Cameron can no longer remember what he's just said. We all sigh. The butcher bird cocks his head.
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