Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Ashes To Ashes


(Silly toon because a photo of a dead bird is yucky)

Yesterday, I sitting in the office, working on the great American novel. (Actually, I think I was annoying fellow bloggers.) Thump, thump! Something slams into the office windows twice, followed by another thump elsewhere. I get up and look out, expecting to see a stunned or dead bird. Nothing but a bird-shaped splotch on the window. A check out back reveals nothing more than a covey of Scaled Quails. I get back to work.

At noon, I head out to visit the horse. Crossing the porch, something catches my eyes. Feet--sticking out of one of my flowerpots. Scaly, gray bird feet.

First, very girly reaction: It's time to call husband and inform him that when he gets home, he'll be performing a dead-bird-ectomy on the flowerpot. Minor problem: This particular pot dries out quickly and as I stare, I see that the plants--some squished under bird corpse--are starting to wilt. It had to be this pot. You couldn't stage a death scene in another pot?

The deceased is a Gamble quail; the kind with the little comma on its head. It's large and I'm thinking it might be the family patriarch. Great. Daddy's a dumb-ass and now he's dead in my flowerpot.

I'm not touching the thing--insert girly, "Ew!"--so I marched over to the barn and get the apple picker (pitchfork). I poke bird with pitchfork. Just. In. Case. Finally, I start to maneuver the tool under the carcasses. Bird is rather stiff and is wedged nicely in the pot. The plants are already, inexplicable tangled in Birdo the Dead's feathers and limbs.

Once I get it free of the pot, I march across the property, through thick, gray sagebrush, pitchfork held to maintain maximum distance between dead thing and me. "Ew, ew, ew." Instead of burying it, I left it in a coyote thoroughfare.

What? Was that wrong? Did it need a rosary and a State funeral? Maybe I should be sitting Shiva? Quick, cover all the mirrors.

I felt rather pleased with my brave, independence for about ten minutes. Then felt guilty because this could have been prevented if I'd just buy some of those hawk stickers so the birds would stop going kamikaze on the windows.

Guilt. Poor birdy. Guilt.

Wednesday, finally.

P.K.

 

Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005