Death should not be the
first entry for 2015, so I am posting this second.
When I woke to prepare
coffee, I spotted a host of sparrows in the shaggy rose bush. Cradled in its sturdy bifurcations were
half-a-dozen sparrows, who seemed unperturbed by my presence. One by one, they disappeared to the lavender
or the rosemary, except the closest, with white cheeks and crest. I am nearly hopeless in bird identification,
but this one was kind enough to look me straight in the eye and wait for me to
locate my bird book.
Coffee made and in hand, I then
glanced nearby to find a fallen sparrow, killed by flying into the glass panel
of my front door. Was the rose-bush
sparrow grieving the loss of his partner? I folded my hand around the still warm bird
and buried her underneath.
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