Birds of a Feather

It seems that only the birds in your town share your band’s love for pilfering and poking around, so you name yourselves accordingly, with titles of the avian sort. Robin, Sparrow, Wren, Magpie. Swift, Dove, Pigeon, Shrike. Jay, Raven, Lark, Finch. Crow tags along sometimes, but she’s working three part time jobs these days. You can’t blame her. Unless you’re made of old money, it’s hard to stay afloat in this town.

The last time all of you were together, it was New Year’s Eve. Well technically, it was New Year’s already, but all of you agreed that you wouldn’t call it New Year until 3am.

So there you were, sitting in an abandoned bar on the outskirts of town and drinking holy water Mark blessed for you behind the altar. (He tells you to call him ‘Brother’, but you’ve known him since he smoked $5 cigarettes behind the school canteen so you don’t bother.)

And you’re passing around a stick you found outside – Lark broke it in two and handed you the larger half, claiming one side had been diseased. One by one, you knight each other, and when the clock strikes three, you say, “Gratissimum.”

It has begun.