Sweet Bird

We came home from dinner last night and Ron said, “There’s a dead bird on our deck.”

A beautiful black and white woodpecker. Young. Soft feathers, curled claws, perfect beak, beady eyes. You wouldn’t know he was dead except he wasn’t moving and his long, thin red tongue was sticking out of his mouth sideways, almost like out of a cartoon.

Ron suspects it flew into the sliding glass door and broke its neck.

I knelt and held the bird. I stroked him and cried. I cried a lot (I had a little too much wine at dinner).

I suggested burying him. Ron thought we should lay him out in the wilderness and let nature take its course. Ron ended up half-burying it, half letting it be. He laid it among dirt and branches and leaves.

Today is winding down and I’m still a little bummed about that sweet bird.