In the days before we gave names to storms, an anonymous blow laid low a riverside tree. Years later, leafless and lifeless, its branches bare of bark, the tree still lay across the water, an antlered jetty.
That gale had heaved the tree over, root plate and all, taking a giant’s bite out of the riverbank. The tree’s sheared and weathered anchors stuck out like pirates’ bones from the caked soil at the base of the trunk. A long-ago flood had wrapped a silt-stained shred of black plastic around one of the protruding roots.
I was wondering about climbing down into this earthy hollow in search of archaeological treasure – a clay pipe or a lodged penny, perhaps – when a peeping commotion sounded from downstream.
Two kingfishers were engaged in a mazy beak-to-tail chase.
The birds were luminous in the bright light, cobalt gems that glittered but did not sparkle, as if they had stolen the sun’s rays and refused to give them back. They followed the twisting contours of the river as a train might hold to the tracks, keeping a steady course, a couple of metres above the water. One suddenly turned in front of a willow and doubled back, its follower still in close pursuit.
I leapt at the possibility of seeing the chasing kingfishers from swan’s eye level and jumped into the pit, scuffing nettles with my shins as I tumbled down. Crouched in the dugout, out of sight and expectant, I heard the loud peeps grew louder and then there were the birds almost directly overhead. I caught an impression of white flashes and undercarriages of deep orange, dulled in the shade.
Most of all, these birds drew my eyes to the front – to those disproportionate daggers of beaks, a clear line dividing mandibles that might snap on a fish later the same day. And behind those formidable weapons, a dark, dispassionate eye that guided them at a speed greater than conscious thought.
For a split second I was reminded of fighter jets, and once they had shot past I found myself standing up in admiration.
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