Attempting to follow the ' Boke of St Alban's 1610' and a Prize for being right. A Confounded Letter.

So you can only smell one thing at a time. The thing right under your nose, noisesome. So smell it and thus be thankful. The bird and its casting smoke. The candle castings against smoke sack. The meat as it red blood brown blots in its box waiting to be food, waiting to be training meat. The midnight smell of small creatures lusting for a life that eludes, even as they chase each down tunnels and blind web trap root that rustle silently under where you stand with sore wet feet.

Cully candle flickers in an sere stern eye you must not watch, even as it blinkless watches wary as it must forever.

Something is difficult, you wish to draw this falcon bird with your blunt prick thick pencil in its waver of gold light and black sack shadows. This hunter bird child trapped by your frightened willing in stale urine smell wet and white mute cast dark wooden rotted walls. Spades and fork machinery, straw web and chain, trowel and rainbow old oil miasma that is just another smell to you and a death to the bird.

Bate and fall, bate and fall, bate and fall. Is this all there is? Stroke hawk breast with pencil feather to calm. Peck to bring blood at the web of skin between thumb and finger again and again. Must not move. Show no pain. Hold tight with shiny black talon hook sheathed in yellow. Dip the thick anti-sharp pencil and you have drawn with the blood as if this is the ritual rightness of the history instruction book. It is all you have and all you ever will have until this captive royal is regally dead.

Rub the skinned skin rabbit smooth while you wait, with salt and prick on pin board, with white dropping and brown mingled blood.

Find a dead swan not mute singing in the flood of rain forever fields and drag the sodden sweat green slimed white feathered mess back to this small Gothic lean too slanted, farm yard, shed hut, that is yours. Dissect completely and directly in a storm of tickled irritated feather wet white with blunt and hook and needle stolen from those not knowing. Save the skull and collect small bones in pill brown plastic and Gothic green glass that glitters with owl pellet litter and toadstool fermented in purple meths. Each blunt pencil blood labelled, candle lit, shown in size and gallery shelved.

The thumbed curled paperback missing pages that was just another school prize. How to collect nature naturally. Raiding the farmer's crow, mole, stoat and fox gibbet was a way round it. Easy to remove from strangled bailing twine to the shed nearby that you have for your small Frankensteins.

Cully was useless and so were you but don't let that stop you trying forever, bate and lift, bate and lift. Is this all there is? Is this what turns your training collections into art and your drawing into eventual lonely sex? The primary child interest shaped by this one fiery creature of yellow eye and insane nature. Is this what you write about to suture the scars that she gave you because you attempted to train and did not know enough to be wrong? Is it?