The birds fell, one by one. At first Ian thought they were diving but they weren’t, they were falling, some blown backwards and then down as if a hand had cuffed them from the sky, others wings spread as if crucified, then tilting and tipping, their heads now heavy with thoughts of death and endlessness, then falling and falling, their wings now folded. He couldn’t see where their fall ended. It was too distant. The air shimmered.

He thought of stories that had started and stories that would never start. His story ended.