Golden Snitch on the upper arm

The ball came off a utility truck outside Coober Pedy two Tuesdays back, or so the driver swore, and it rolled into the forecourt of the roadhouse like it had somewhere to be. Gold as a boiled sweet, hot enough to blister your palm, with two grey feathers folded flat along its back. Dad would have called it a bird with ideas above its station. I rang Mr Kaplan at the depot and he said keep it, nobody ever claims anything out here.

Here's the odd part. It doesn't sit still. Put it on the counter beside the tea urn and by morning it's back on the windowsill, feathers fanned like it's been out for a flight. I tried a jam jar, a biscuit tin, the bottom of the chest freezer. Last night I found it perched on the bonnet of the old ute, facing north, the way the road runs out towards the salt lake.

I've decided I'm not going to chase it. Ma used to say you don't catch the things that want to be caught, you leave the gate open and see who comes through. So I've propped the back door of the kiosk, set a saucer of water on the step, and I've been writing to you instead of ringing, because you'll think I've lost my marbles and I'd rather you read it slowly.

Come out at Easter if you can. Bring the good torch. I'll show you where the bitumen gives up and the sky starts, and if it's still here, you can have it. It's yours anyway, I reckon. You always could catch things before I could.

Love, Nell