on Crow Road

I am waiting for a bus to come take me swimming. In the shelter lies remnants of Saturday night: three quarters of a beer still with a head on it and a purple cocktail cup filling with rain in dimples. There is also of course the bird who never flew design and its eye changes green to amber to red with the traffic lights.

I am on Crow Road. As I descended the hill for the bus my head was lifted by the playground skipping rope's whoop whoop whoop thrumming the air over head. Sure enough a mute swan clears a rooftop and its long neck slipstreams directly above me and over and away past the next rooftop. It has lifted my spirits already, I skip my way down for the bus and my swim.
As I am waiting in the shelter, and the bird that never flew is winking colours, I hear a thin skreek. It is all happening in the air on Crow Road. There, sheltered in the rousing applause of the rain on the roof, I watch two sparrowhawks wrestle and grapple and air-tumble and release each other directly before me. They fly off and engage again.
The bird that never flew's eye blinks to red and round the corner comes my bus. I leave the birds on Crow Road and soon I am in the water. In there, gliding and pulling wide-armed. Flying in water. My head beats a skipping rope rhythm, and as I turn I tumble underwater and push off letting out bubbly screeches. I am off again, arms stroking me onwards: pulling to the beat of Crow Road.