Thursday, April 1, 2010

Wexford Sights (IX)

I was reluctantly awoken on this chilly morning by an awful hullabulloo coming from the sun room. I could hear the hound clambering about and barking, so I made my sleepy way to the source of the noise. In one of the corners of the ceiling was a tiny, terrified bird, clinging to the exposed wooden beam while the hound danced and barked with delight. The sun room door was open to the garden, and the bird must have flown in by accident. I grabbed the hound's collar and dragged him into the kitchen. As I did so, the bird launched itself from its perch, flying the whole length of the room at full speed and slamming into the large window at the end with a loud thump. I saw it fall, and ran down to where it lay on the floor, its little tongue protruding as it gasped for breath. Then it was dead. The impact must have broken its neck. I took it outside (so light in my hand) and placed it gently on the windowsill, then got my camera. Das vedanya, little birdie...


Claudia said...

Poor beautiful little birdie. You gave dignity to his death. Do you know the poet Emily Dickinson?

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass.
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

A Doubtful Egg said...

Lovely poem, Claudia. I know a bit of Dickinson's work, but it's a long time since I've read any. Sadly, this bird shall hop no more... (I didn't write that later the same day another bird, a little coal tit, got trapped in the sun room, and was cornered by the barking hound when I found him. He was so terrified that he hopped onto my finger and perched there for about five minutes, unable to move, then flew away out the door. So not all stories have a sad ending!)