"James Van Pelt - A Flock Of Birds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pelt James Van)

patted her on the top of her hands, made sure the water pitcher was full, then
went to his office where he printed the pictures from his camera. The last one
was quite good. Full view of the bird's beak, head, neck, breast, wing shape
and tail feathers. Identification should have been easy, but nothing matched
in his books. He needed better resources.
Driving to Littleton library meant passing the landfill. Most days Carson
tried to ignore it—it reminded him of Arlington Cemetery without the
tombstones—but today he stopped at the side of the road. He needed a place to
think, and the broad, featureless land lent itself to meditations. Last year
swarms of gulls circled, waiting for places to set down. The ones on the
ground picked at the remnants of flags that covered the low hills. The year
before, wreaths and flags and sticks festooned with ribbons dotted the mounds
while earth movers ripped long ditches and chugged diesel exhaust. Today,
though, no birds. He supposed there was nothing left for them to eat. No
smells to attract them. The earth movers were parked off to the side in a neat
row. Dust swirled across the dirt in tiny eddies that danced for a moment,
then dissipated into nothing. The ground looked as plain as his back yard. Not
a tree anywhere or grass. He thought about Tillie searching for a geranium.
He looked up. The sky was completely empty. No hawks. Could it be that not
even a mouse lived in the landfill?
What would he do if she left? He leaned against the car, his hands deep in his
pockets, chin on his chest. What if she were gone? So many had departed: the
girl at the magazine stand, the counter people at the bagel shop, his
coworkers. What was it he used to do? He could barely remember, just like he
couldn't picture his wife's face clearly anymore. All of them, slipping away.
He slid his fingers inside his shirt. No bumps there either. Why not, and were
they inevitable?
A wind kicked across the plain, scurrying scraps of paper and more dust toward
him in a wave. He could taste rain in the air. Weather's changing, he thought,
and climbed back into the car before the wind reached him.


·····


Skylights illuminated the library's main room. Except for the stale smell and
the thin coating of neglect on the countertops and the leather chairs arranged
in cozy reading circles, it could be open for business. Carson saw no evidence
that anyone had been here since his last visit a month ago. He checked his
flashlight. Sunlight didn't penetrate to the back stacks where the bird books
were, and he wanted to make sure he didn't miss any.
On the bulletin board inside the front doors hung civil defense and the Center
for Disease Control posters filled with the familiar advice: avoid crowds, get
good sleep, report symptoms immediately. The civil defense poster reminded him
that Patriots Protect Their Immune Systems and the depressing, Remember, It
Got Them First.
The cart he found had a wheel that shook and didn't track with the others. It
pulled to the left and squeaked loudly as he pushed it between the rows. In
the big building, the noise felt out of place. Absurdly, Carson almost said,
"Shhh!" A library was supposed to be quiet, even if he was the only one in