The Eagle soared above the ruins, wing tips jewelled with blood in the rays of the dying sun. Far below, a shape moved. The eagle swooped, the black diamond glint in her eye unreadable in the incipient gloom. Down, wheeling and circling like a dancer, the eagle spiralled towards the parched earth, talons skittering across the roof of an abandoned vehicle as she landed. Rusticles were already bleeding from its wounds, fatal wounds that had been sustained so long ago that scabby bubbles had formed round the gashes.

Head cocked, the eagle glanced swiftly round. A piece of paper caught her eye, as it rustled like autumn leaves in the chilling air. The majestic bird notices the faded words, the almost unrecognisable images, but had no interest in the once urgent banner headline. Even the material itself was of no current significance. It was late autumn, swiftly glistening into winter; she would not need to consider nest-building until spring.

The cold ruffled into the soft downy feathers on her legs. For once, she had been mistaken. There was no prey worthy of her effort here.

The eagle stood, as if listening, smelling the incoming rain on the wind. Time to head for the distant escarpment that served her as home.

With one last glance round at the windowless edifices, rising like nameless tombstones, the only epitaph for a time gone by, she spread her wings. The Eagle came from an ancient, noble race; what cared she that the buildings erected by some insignificant earthbound creature were crumbling, inevitably, into dust?

Slowly, the eagle rose into the air and headed for home. She did not glance down as the detritus from a lost civilisation drifted across tarmac that was fast being reclaimed by the green shoots which were even then breaking up its artificial surface. Tomorrow, she would hunt again, far from this place of ghosts and garbage, and she would be as successful as she usually was. With supreme confidence in her skill, strength and ability, the eagle soared, flying ever higher, until, at last, no human eye could have spotted her, even had there been any human eye to look in her direction.

It was piled up all around us. A glorious landscape of food and bedding material. It had built up gradually before our lifetimes, but our grandparents had said that they remembered a time when it was just a row of straggly trees and shrubs, which were constantly patrolled by the two-legged giants.

Since the new rock path had been finished though, the strip of rock running past our area had almost become a backwater. It was only inhabited by ourselves and other four-legs.

The only use nowadays that the two-legs put it to was in procreation. They were fun to watch from the safety of the piles of multi-coloured bags that had been thrown out from their metal boxes.

The ritual of coming together, the disrobing, then the consummation amidst squeals and growls and other strange noises was all very entertaining. The final Ha! Ha! Ha!’s as they put on their covers fascinated us. They certainly had a strange way of multiplying.

Fire-sticks were often consumed afterwards as they sat resting on our grassy banks. They mostly came in the dark, and only in dry weather. The majority of the two-legs covered the grass with fabric, perhaps their seed had to be caught in this way. Most of them were very careless though, leaving some of their seed behind in see-through containers. At first we had studied these for days, even weeks, in the hope that we would see little two-legs born. All we got though was a gradual disappearance of the containers as they were covered in leaves and soil. Inevitably the bags of treasure would absorb our attention, and we’d lose track of everything else.

Others also used the bushes and hollows that we lived in. Large four-legs patrolled the area, and used their fangs and claws to tear open the latest piles of bags. Their reddish-brown coats blended well with the surroundings, and they could be hard to spot. They never gave us any trouble. We were much too quick for them, and although they’d take our babies if we hadn’t hidden them well enough, they were no match for us.

Lots of the stuff the two-legs abandoned here was of little use to us. Great square boxes, with no food in them. We did get bedding out of some of them, but usually we paid those things scant attention. Occasionally we’d have a bonanza as we came across big floppy treasure that was full of soft hair etc. Most of our nests were made cosy with this material, but we had to fight off even our friends to get it.

From time to time we had our evening searches interrupted by weird two-legged behaviour. They’d arrive in one of their metal boxes, its staring eyes lighting up bushes, its roar frightening our children, and then they would climb out with a great crashing of metal.

Their next trick would be to soak the metal box with a foul-smelling fluid, and set fire to it. The two-legs would then run as fast as they could down the rock strip.

Some of us were occasionally unlucky. The two-legs would put their box over a nest. Mostly they didn’t give us time to rescue our babies and they would be consumed in the flames, or died by being covered with the hot sticky substances that dripped from the metal boxes as they burned.

Fire was a big enemy to us, and in the hot season the two-legs method of sacrifice would occasionally set the shrubs and trees ablaze. These would sometimes have to be put out by packs of yellow and black two-legs pouring tons of water on the bushes and us from their big red metal boxes.

Being aware of this, we dug our nests deep, and mostly survived, but if we were caught in the open we would have a frantic dash to avoid cremation.

I think the two-legs realised this though, and had built us an escape route. The long strip of rock that they used for their transport was quite wide, two of their metal boxes could pass each other on it. By crossing this we were able to get into the trees on the other side.

This was the territory of other four-legs, so we didn’t venture any further into it than we needed to. We’d cower there until the fire was out then dash back to our own side.

Another hazard we had to face was the routine of the two-legs who brought their own four-legs to root and do their business in our hedgerow. This was an evil thing – their waste had to be avoided at all costs – the foul smelling gunge clung to our coats and had to be cleaned off by swimming in the nearby water, or, horrible thought, cleaned off as we groomed. These four-legs would sometimes hunt us, not very successfully I might say, and if they did get close we would bite them severely. We’d not see that one again for quite a while.

Much worse than those was the smaller, often stripey, four-legs who definitely hunted us. They worked at night, when we were at our busiest – seeking food for our babies and ourselves. They were fast and lethal. We rarely saw them coming, and when the daylight returned we would see one or two, or perhaps more, of our kin lying dead around us. We are resilient though, and our young soon replaced these losses.

Other strange creatures came our way too. There were the ones that insisted on constantly crossing and re-crossing the strip of rock. The metal boxes sometimes squashed them as the two-legs came down to procreate or leave more bags of treasure. These creatures had no coats as such, but were covered in spines. We left them strictly alone, as we had learned that those spines could be painful – the four-legs though that were brought down on strings sometimes found them when their two-legs freed them. They also learned quickly that spines in your face from poking at them when they’d curled into a ball was agony. We really enjoyed the spectacle as they struggled to shake them off, yawping and whining all the while. Their two-legs would have to help them, uttering strange crooning sounds as they did so.

Now and then in the hot season a very large metal box would roar slowly down the rock strip, the two-legs walking alongside it putting our treasure into its great maw. The stuff that we couldn’t eat or use, we didn’t mind about, but our supply of food was taken too, so for a day or so we had to grub around for other sustenance.

The famine didn’t last for long though. Other two-legs must have felt sorry for us, and soon the multi-coloured bags filled with all sorts of goodies would be falling around us from their metal boxes.

All in all we lived a good life in this land of plenty.

I have fallen in with the wrong kind; I, who was created from precious matter. My maker described me as bespoke, that is made to order. Elements linked together by joints to move with ease and baby-like in character, that`s me. My packaging was beautiful but made to be thrown away as all such things are. After my wrapper was torn away in a hasty manner, someone looked at me briefly and then ignored me because other things claimed attention. Small and delicate as I am, disregard caused me to be ditched along with the packaging, by mistake for sure.

Now I am in the wrong site altogether; never should be here. All around is utter rubbish that shall be nameless. Did I say that I have a name? Definitely a feminine one, although I cannot read it. In my proper surroundings that name would be mentioned over and over again. All this trash in which I am lying is detrimental to my condition for I shall deteriorate fast, losing my lustre and even finishing up as a mere framework. I have a horror of not being looked after properly. Please, someone, please find me or my looks will be marred for life.

I have been picked up and carried to a soft nest. Infinitely better than the first situation but I`m still not in my right place, the babies around me are not like me at all. They might eat me! Perhaps not. I hope for better things. I have been picked up again and carried in a dark place, travelling. I know this because I have travelled before and I have great hopes of coming into my own.

My hopes are realised now and people are admiring me, picking me up and carrying me around showing me to other people. There is a lot of head-shaking because they don`t know to whom I belong. The name I possess restricts my popularity. Now I am lying on a table and I have a label on me with numbers on it but I can`t read the numbers. I am being picked up and scrutinised, turned over and over and people are arguing about me. Well, not about me but about the numbers really. What`s this? Now I am grabbed and I am travelling again. Where on earth am I going? Someone is shouting but I shall not even try to translate the words.

"I`ve found it, after all this time. The silver bracelet that Aunt Maud had made specially for the Christening. You remember, we couldn`t find it after we cleared up after the party."