I have feathers growing over my skull, like a Mohawk parrot: and a line of wispy foliage runs on down my spine. Ridges of featherwork lead from pinky-base to elbow, from elbow to shoulder: rusty red feathers that tickle in the breeze. On the tops of my ears are delicate tufts. I hear better than I did.
I suppose I am turning into a bird: I have stronger than ever a yen to climb lightly onto housetops and to perch on wires. My bones are hollowing, turning to wishbones and tuning forks. Open spaces, where the wind might big me up and tumble me, are dangerous and alluring. The high silver static in my ears modulates to the distant scream of hawks.
I can feel my eyes grow brighter and sharper. When someone says something muddled I find myself turning my head to the side, so as to fix them with a one-eyed, brilliant, predator's stare.
Not long now, says the goddess. Oh, not long now, my darling.