I stepped out the front door into the sharp cold morning, mind set on the day ahead. My eye caught a glimpse of a solitary bird nestled in the leaves below the living room window. Its head was down. damn. Before I got to the bottom of the frosty brick steps, I involuntarily breathed out a quiet eulogy. “Sorry little fella’" is what I whispered.
The feathers were soft, the body rigid. I wish it hadn’t died at my window, at my bird feeder. I wish it hadn’t died a cold morning death away from home. The small warbler with the yellow patch on his tail was a migrant, heading north for Spring.
I know it was an accident, but I won’t deny some guilt. I’ve always had mixed feelings about feeders near the house. For now they stay and I hope for safety. I’m not convinced the birds need us as much as we need them.
As I sat on my couch this morning, watching the seemingly happy flutter of activity at the feeders, I thought of the Myrtle Warbler. Sorry little fella’.
1 comment:
Awe. Poor little feller. Don't feel too guilty. We had one on our front porch. All of our feeders are in the back. Not sure what he was doing on the front porch.
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