Two people holding hands, each with a small black flock of birds tattooed on the inner forearm, one person wearing a camera strap.

Matching bird flock tattoos on forearms

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two people hold hands outdoors against a blurred green background, showing small black bird silhouettes tattooed on the inside of each forearm. The left wrist has a loose cluster of about five birds flying in a diagonal line, while the right forearm has a longer trail of around seven birds rising towards the elbow. The ink is solid black with no visible shading, and the composition is shot at arm level with a film camera strap visible on the right.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Nell, The starlings came back to the boat again this morning, off Flamborough, before the nets were even up. Seven of them sat along the galley rail while I peeled potatoes, close as stitches on a hem, and every time I moved the kettle they lifted together and resettled a foot further along, as though the rail had been measured out for them. I told Danny they were after the bacon rind. He said starlings don't want rind. They want somewhere to stop.

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He has been quiet since the Tuesday we lost the otter board. Skipper says a man can go a whole season without speaking and still be good company, and Danny is proof. Yesterday I found him at the chart table with a biro, drawing a line of small marks across the back of a fish-market receipt. Five birds, then a gap, then the rest. He wouldn't tell me what it was. He just folded it into his oilskin and said it was a heading.

Last night the wind went round to the south and the whole crew was out on deck with the lamps, and I saw the flock rise off the rail all at once and turn over the water in a long slant, stretching out and then pulling tight, the way cloth does when someone takes the other end. Danny watched them go with his hand flat on the cold steel, and I understood he was counting. Eleven, twelve. Then he laughed, quite loud, and said they had never once lost the one at the front.

I've pinned the receipt above the range where the steam can get at it. Come home on the Saturday tide, Nell, and bring the good kettle. Tell me which way you want to fly, and I will work out the rest.

Love, Ruth

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