Birdsong

I saw a dead duck on the path yesterday. It wasn't a duck, it was some kind of water fowl. If pressed to give an answer I'd say it was a cormorant.

It was rather ugly and it lay on the path at an odd angle with its one eye opened, staring blankly up at the blue blue sky, the other must have been pointed at the darkness of the concrete below. It took up the middle of the path, as if to say "look what you've done, you can't ignore this!" Its variegated feathers were darkened and somehow the curved wings were trying to flair out in a mockery of flight.

I admit that when I saw it from afar I thought it was only a crumpled black trash bag left behind, or perhaps a trash bag that had escaped from one of the trash barrels and being caught up by a strong wind, was borne or flown to that spot. Deciding that it preferred the ground to the sky.

It died by human causes. That's what I've been trying to get out this whole while. I didn't see clues to this the first time as I cautiously walked around it, fearing that it was only asleep and would be cranky if woken up. But I took note of the strange angle of neck and staring eye and thought to examine it on the way back. When I returned I still cautioned my movements, and peered carefully at it. Behind me the plants in the pond were pushed about by the wind, which caused them to applaud morbidly at me, at the world. I noticed that there was a nearly invisible taut line appearing from its back and I followed the line to its neck and it disappeared into its face. It appeared to be fishing line and I cast my mind to all the possible ways of death and I saw the bird as it stumbled and flailed and gave one last gasp, one more squawk, a birdsong, before finally dying.

Me.


I try not to apologize for this, but its one of my human qualities. As I walked away I wished I had my camera with me. It's a strange fascination with me and dead things.