A mug of morning tea in hand, I peruse my inbox and scroll through posts to check in with the world at large. Political shenanigans abound and the coronavirus still wreaks global havoc. A loud thud against the kitchen window pulls me away from the computer screen and with even more foreboding I make my way to the back step. There I find a beautiful bird. I cradle it in my hands hoping that its still warm body will come to life, come out of concussion and coma, and fly once again. But its neck is floppy and I realize there is no hope and find little comfort that it must have died instantly. In one moment the bird is flying obliviously towards an opening in leafy boughs. In the next its life is cut short as it hits a cold, hard reflection in a windowpane.
I sit with the bird for a while. When my tears subside curiosity takes over and I marvel at the exquisite details of a bird that are hard to appreciate through lenses of binoculars. The whiskers at the beak, the gnarled, clawed feet curled under for flight. I gently stroke smooth, shiny feathers of varying texture, color and patterning. A spotted breast leads me to ascertain this is a thrush. It has grayish brown wings and buffy spectacles around the eyes are indicative of a Swainson’s thrush.
I am dismayed to think that my house prevented this migrant from making a safe journey south for winter, even while my yard has good stopover habitat for thrushes, with plentiful undergrowth, food and shelter. I solemnly lay my fallen visitor to rest under a pile of leaf litter.
This is a sad start to the day. But my emotion is a release, perhaps a salve for the numbness I have come feel about the present state of the world we live in.