The Midwife’s got her eye on me, there’s a fact — she’s watching me through the cream-coloured curtain of snow shrouding the branch, has been for the past few hours, mumbling words all the while over that empty box down there in the lane. I return her gaze in my measured way: it’s me she’s after. She and I have been waiting a long time for this day to arrive. Our impending correspondence. Our lovers’ contract.

My feet slip from the frozen branch. I spiral down into the maelstrom of the lane and land softly in the snow. From her kneeling position, she reaches into the folds of her blue cloak and pulls out a few crumbs. Her warm hands surround me. A bough never felt this smooth, yet soft. I see another word confected on her lips, a trembling jet of steam on the verge of vapour. Unsteadily, she rises. A cold blast of wind ruffles my feathers for an instant. Now I’m safe within the folds of her cloak.

She wears a crown of leaves in her hair. Let me perch there in my thoughts, riding aloft like a grandee on an elephant. The wrinkles side winding across her face and neck. May they collect my tears and direct them to her soul for soothing. The fire that glows like kindling faggots in her eyes. May it keep my memories warm. I have no need for earthly comforts. I am wrapped in her perfumes, drunk on her fading breath.

Ave! they call her but she called us Vowel Birds first.