Thursday, May 3, 2012

little birds

What is that, Mama?

I look down at a featherless little bird. Without formed eyes. A swollen bird fetus on our front step.

It is a dead baby bird, my love.
How did it die?
I don't know, my love.
Maybe it was an eagle.
I don't think it was an eagle. 
Or a hawk.
Perhaps. It probably just fell out of a nest, shell broken, and was dragged here by some animal, like the neighbor cat Tae-bo.
Or an eagle.
Or an eagle.
Why do birds die, Mama?
Because everything dies, baby.
But it's little.
Yes. Sometimes little things die.
Is the baby going to die?
I hope not, baby. 
Yes, baby?
I think I saw an eagle.


  1. Beautiful, innocent, honest, sad, true, wise. <3

  2. Oh Angie. I sometimes think that my children's knowledge of death - untimely, wrong death is one of the hardest things I grieve. I hold onto the idea that, like Bea, they have compassion and gentleness because of it but "I hope not" seems so hard to give them but there isn't an alternative.

    I hope not too, Angie.

  3. I hope not too. And besides that, I think not too.

  4. Baby fawn? Baby baby? Am I reading between the lines? I have a feeling you are talking about more than birds. Am I being obtuse? Sending a giant hug.

  5. I love that you both talk together. Even if it's about little things dying. It seems important, rather than hiding it from each other. Have been thinking of you. Sending loads of love.


What do you think?