Dead Bird and the Dirty Pavement

This happened this morning, and it already feels like a fragment from 1,000 years ago.

Walking up the sidewalk to work, I found a small bird dead on the concrete. Dead birds, especially finches and sparrows, seem more common in Middle Tennessee. Our cold snaps catch them unprepared. Here, night freezes into the twenties and teens after an afternoon into the forties, and they cannot cope. The cold spell struck early this year, undoubtedly throwing off many migratory creatures.

My mind is too prone to exaggeration. A single bird died, not a suicidal flock blocking the entire sidewalk. The only other dead one I encountered in recent memory hanged limply from my cat's mouth.

This poor fellow had a thatch of marigold brightening his tail feathers and a more subdued yellow on his belly. For a moment, I feared the bird might start moving in my hand as I grabbed it, the unexpected warmth resuming its fight for life. Instead it remained still and stiff.

I tossed the body into the shrubbery hemming the main entrance. He tumbled onto his marigold belly so I had to reach into shrubs to flip him over so his brown coat blended into the topsoil and mulch that would claim him. A flash of yellow between the dull green bushes could catch someone's eye. But with all the cell-phone zombies shuffling in and out of this office complex, probably not.

Maybe a few people walked past that dead bird. I couldn't let it go. Call it strange, but leaving it lie on the pavement felt wrong. I did it once or twice upon early arrival at Suburban News. Better to leave the dead bird in the bushes and let life continue on its excepted trajectory.