About the work

The bird, a young starling, had been taught to perch on shoulders at dinner. Not at the table, just on the walk from the kitchenette to the monitor, a brief, unsteady stopover. It would twitch and preen, then fly off before the first forkful. That particular evening, it waited longer than usual, watching the steam rise, the way the light caught the oil on the pasta. Perhaps it sensed the silence, or the stillness of the hands. It is still watching now, long after the plate has gone cold.