Where do all the dead birds go? It may seem like a peculiarly dark question, but just around the point from the oddly named Beaky Bay there is a small cove, littered with the disintegrating remains of sea birds. It is a weird harvest. Bones sit on rocks, feathered wings rest in pools, yet nearby, gulls roost contentedly at the water’s edge. Others, more busy, dive into the sea to catch fish from these abundant waters. Offshore, soft corals lie beneath and around Bass Point, creatures are protected within a marine reserve.
I am reminded of the Jimmy Cliff tune, and wonder whether the birds are just sitting in limbo, songless, harvested from the sky, and are grimly scattered over the rocks awaiting an eventual tidal flow to carry their remains to sea. It seems to me that this a strangely limbo world.
It is hard to resist being anthropomorphic…
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