Thrones

I stumbled across a clearing crammed with hundreds of swans, all of which were digging their bills deep into the downy roots of their quills, scraping oil across their skin with their beaks until I interrupted them and they stopped their preening to eye the intruder, the invader of their sacred privacy, their heads swiveling on their necks like feathered cobras, pupils were black wheels spinning like gears in their skulls and the air hissed, but it could have been from the reedy stream, or the breeze raking its fingers through the tresses of the willows as I heard the turning of a crank ratcheting like metal teeth in a metal mouth and I took a step backwards, my heel skidding on a slimy patch of dung that sent me tumbling to the mud and the last thing I heard as I sat there in the grime was the howl of the wind, the beating of countless wings, the grinding of a great machine breathing into my face with a thousand feathery flames.