Black and grey fine line and dotwork tattoo of a feather with a flock of birds rising from it, on the upper back near the neck.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Feather and flying birds on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a tattoo on the upper back, close to the neck. A feather rises from a curving line that loops at the base, and a flock of small birds lifts away from its tip. The linework is fine and the shading is built from stippled dots, set against plain pale skin.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The reed-cutter's wife had counted the sparrows on the wall twice before her son came running up from the marsh with a feather in his fist. It was long and grey-brown and still smelled of mud. "The heron is dead," he said. "I found it under the sluice gate." She turned it over, and the curl at its root was tight as a fiddlehead.

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The old men said a feather from a dead bird must be buried, or it would call its kind back. So they dug a hole at the edge of the barley, laid the feather in a strip of linen, and sang the short song for the dead. Nothing happened that night, or for a month after. Then one morning the barley lay flattened in a ring, and a flock of small brown birds rose from the earth where the feather had been and went up in a spiral over the river.

That night she took a lamp out to the hole and found the linen empty. Beside it the soil held a line of dark marks, like the stroke of a reed pen, curving down and round and back. Her son said the birds had come out of the feather. She said they had come from the marsh, and the feather had only shown them where to rise.

Every spring after, the flock returned to the same field and lifted from the same place. The children learned to count them and never once got the same number twice. On still evenings the old women said you could see the stem of the feather drawn in the air above the barley, thin as a line of ink, and that the last bird always turned back to look before it went.

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