A small barbequed bird lay nested in a miniature basket on the isolated table.

Its feathers blackened and crunchy as its beak pointed towards an open page of a book. The page was in mid transition- in that fragmentary moment between being turned over and hovered midway in the air as though an invisible hand were beneath it. Through the opaque curtain I could make out the outline of a tree with a thousand branches., all twisted and warped through the thin layer of curtain which appeared to be waving in the wind. By the bird in the basket a beam of light shone through the window and created the shadow of a cross. A thick vertical line with a faded contrast was cut through the middle by the thin deep shadow of the window frame. The table was square. It is in fact perfectly square with ninety degree angles on each corner. It has a light pine wood surface with a solid brown boarder. The bird, sat still. Although it looked like an inanimate toy object, it was in fact, or had once been a flying bird. However, the villagers finding this bird such a delicacy and unable to catch it with their hands were in the habit or rather tradition of putting glue upon the branches. When the birds got stuck all that was left was to stick them and the branches into the furnace to roast for a few minutes. When cooked in this way the entire bird has a crunchy texture. You can eat the whole thing without any need of cutting off a piece. Eat it like a giant crisp. I remember my uncle Thoros once ate a whole bird in one mouthful. It was so small and his mouth and appetite so enormous that it was an easy and impressive consumption. However, he forgot to remove the beak before eating it, and when he sat down to prepare himself for the main course he hiccupped a chirp. I laughed hersterically, and the more he laughed the more the birds beak within him sang louder and louder until he began convulsing, then chocking.. I thundered a slap upon his back whereupon the beak flew out of his mouth and into the plant pot. Oscar, startled by the commotion waltzed up to the plant pot, sniffed it and ate the regurgitated beak before pissing all over it as was his custom. Aunty Moro brought out the slow cooked slam. It had been under ground in coal for 2 days and nights. When it arrived the smell drove us all into a frenzy, mouths salivating uncontrollably. I was asked to try the first piece it was so soft and tender that I left in it my mouth for five minutes to absorb all the flavours and delicacy of the texture. Oscar was clearly jealous and ran up to Moro, jumping at her to grab a bite, but she shewed him away with her foot while placing the dish upon the table. Oscar infuriated let out what would have been an all mighty roar. However, all we heard was a distorted chirping like a drowning bird. Not just any bird though. It was a piercing, cry like an angry seagull.