Babies, Reeds (by Vanessa Gebbie)There are babies growing in the reed beds again. They grow in cocoons like the nests of harvest mice, only a little looser in the weave. The cocoons have been swelling since the spring, and now the first frosts have come and gone but the cold will be back. I feel it on the wind.
The welcome boards at nature reserves have posters attached, headed 'Advice'. Should you stray off the path, do not make eye contact with the foetuses.
Of course, I'm still walking there. I did yesterday. I find the whole thing fascinating, if a little frightening.
I stopped a while in one of the hides. Many cocoons had burst; the air was filled with thistledown. Below me, the water was as still as glass. And under the water, babies. Still curled up tight, thumbs in mouths, floating just under the surface, turning lazily as though breathed on by some unseen current.
I decided not to go to that hide again. Then I must have strayed from the path.
A cocoon was bursting. A male child was grasping the reed with one fist. He was crying, a high sound. Below him, the water. Waiting.
I'm far, far too old for this. But it is done; I did not let him drop. I put him under my jacket, naked against my skin.
And on my way home, I sang.
[The second short short story series is announced and explained here.]