Dead Bird

When I left for work this morning, there was a wounded bird in my front lawn. It was flopping around, unable to fly. It seemed to be having trouble walking around as well. “This is not good,” I thought. But I was in a hurry, and left it at that.

I had to return home at midday on a completely arbitrary (and pointless, as I was to find out later,) errand. The bird was there, though now it wasn’t moving. It was still alive, its big black eye darting around, opening and closing rapidly. It seemed to be in a lot of pain.

By the time I left the office, I could only think of the bird. As I was driving home, I kept thinking: “What am I going to do with this thing when I get home?” Naturally, when I got to my house the bird was there. It died with its wings outstretched, as if it was trying to feel the sun over the entire surface of its body for the last time.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with the body. I thought that maybe I should pick it up and put it in a garbage bag before it becomes too badly decomposed. My work mates suggested that I leave it for the neighborhood cats. I think I’ll leave it overnight to see what happens. If it’s there by morning, I’m going to have to scoop it up.

August 9, 2002 | Archived in Random Notes