thunk

It’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. Right up there with my father carrying one sixth of the casket of his best friend’s daughter and cracking up crying when someone says “it’s not a very heavy load, at least” and old men sitting alone and expressionless on park benches.

It breaks my heart to see it, but I keep turning the porch light back on and going over to see it, the little broken neck turned grotesquely into the snow that fell just this morning. The streak-free shine of the transparent murder weapon, blocking out the winter chill. I heard the bang on the patio door earlier in the afternoon, when I was watching the birds pick seeds one at a time out of the feeder we hung from the silver maple out front. I said to no on in particular, “stupid bird just hit the window” and went over to investigate. The poor little thing was on the ground, writhing, twisting it’s brown striped and freckled wings without effect.

“Daddy!” I cried, as if I were six again. “Daddy! It’s suffering!” Silence responded from the other room like a punch in the mouth. “Daddy!” I tried again, “shouldn’t we do something?” Still, no response. Finally the little bird ceased to move anymore and lay still. “I think its dead.” I announce, still talking to without regard to who’s listening. “Maybe it’s just stunned,” my mom interjects, unhelpfully. “It might wake up and fly away.” Several hours later and it’s still there. The sad little twisted bones and the possibility of flight cut short by an invisible foe. The tail feathers erupt at an odd angle, suggesting catastrophe.

Every time I think about the thunk and the show of death it performed I feel a little more dead on the inside; like the sadness is washing over more of me with each thought. And yet I know I’m going to walk back over there once again before I climb under my covers, flick the switch back to the on position and look at that little bird one more time.