Owl tattoo on a finger

I am writing this on the back of a spare customs form because the pad has run out and the kettle has gone cold again. You will laugh, but the little owl is back. It perches on top of the floodlight pole behind the lorry bay, the one with the cracked lamp, and at two every morning it turns its head right round to look at the queue, as if someone has asked it to count the trucks. Dimitri says it is a barn owl and wants to shoot it. I told him it has more sense than either of us, since it has never once had to stamp a passport.

Last Tuesday a driver from Plovdiv came to my window with a sealed box of honey and a long story about his late mother's hives. The seal was in order, the papers were in order, and the honey was not on any list I had. I was about to send him back to the far lane when the owl dropped off the pole, low across the tarmac, and settled on the bonnet of his cab. It sat there with those wide yellow eyes, looking at me through the glass as if it had already read the manifest and had opinions about it.

Dimitri swore in the booth behind me. The driver crossed himself and waited. I stamped the form and handed it back without another glance at the box, and the owl lifted off the bonnet and went back up to its pole without a sound.

Some things are better left to the owl. Come and visit in the spring, and bring tea that is not from the machine. I will show you the pole.

Ilse