Hidden under cover of night when I checked in, the construction site across the road is now in full swing. I lie in my hotel bed, wide awake. Sunlight chiselling at the curtains’ edges. I check the clock. Frown. Get up. Drag open a curtain. I count twelve new dwellings approaching completion. Labourers call to one another, drown out a radio.
Twelve spacious nests, forty feet up, just one oak tree’s contribution to the vibrant and vociferous local rookery. Two dozen noisy birds guarantee customer requests for rooms with a treeless, car park view.
There’s more than one oak tree.
by Tate Christie
From: Friday Flash Fiction