{A concussion recovery post}

I saw the kingfisher for the first time today, and I cried.

He flew onto the dead ash tree from somewhere downstream, and I recognized him by the dart of his wing and the shape of his head.

I can’t remember the word for that shape of a bird’s head.

Russet. Ruff. Crown. Crest.

Crest. That’s it.

I find it by slow association.

So many words seem to have flown clear out of my brain. Or perhaps not out, but somewhere further in, behind a wall of protection. Like gates shut up for fear of flood.

They are in there and I have to coax them out, or sit silent enough on a stump till I seem part of the riverbank to them.

Nothing now is on demand in my brain.

It’s a live stream, and I have to wait for the current to bring me what I seek.

Only sometimes the crested bird flashes into view before I even know how much I needed to see him.

I reach for the camera in my pocket, but he sees my elbow twitch and is gone before I capture proof of his presence.

There are just bare grey branches and the blue spring sky, and the river, quivering.




Lindsey Gallant
A northern girl living the island life. Follower of Jesus. Writer, book nerd, nature lover. Homeschool mom and Charlotte Mason enthusiast. Prefers pen and paper.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *