I didn’t even have time to focus my binoculars. The shock slammed them hard against my surprised spectacles: anomalous barriers carving the amazement unhesitatingly into my face. The squabbling, squeaking sparrows didn’t even have time to hide: lined up ‒ as they were – regularly, innocently, spaced along the fence-top as fairground targets are… (although these ragged rascals were – it turned out – surprisingly safe: protected by perspective and pathological fledgling hunger; paradoxically, those wiser, those hidden, those mute, were not). The air didn’t even have time to part – literally playing its supporting role to perfection: greasing the event, the skimming of its constituent atoms, of the life it fires. Of one life concluded.
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