Little baby bird.
Little dead baby bird.
Little dead baby bird
lying on the pavement.
It looked like a squidgy little jelly baby, or a newborn kangaroo crawling through the thicket of its mother's fur seeking out the comfort of the pouch and its wee nip-nips. It's a little spot around the corner from here, where cute miniature songbirds dance and lark in the bushes, hop along the paving stones a few steps ahead of me as I walk to and from the bus stop. I almost stepped on the stray immobile dot, the featherless vaguely bird-shaped squelch, laid out on the ground, but with perfect timing my eyes focused on it and my foot darted to the side.
It looked too young to have being attempting flight, and there was no sign of a smashed egg that it might have dropped out of. How it got there is a mystery. Where it went is also a mystery. When I walked past the same spot later that day I had my eyes wide open, combing the ground back and forth in search of the dead baby bird. It wasn't there. There is a very old episode of The Simpsons, I can't remember which one it is, but I have the image in my head of the dog licking up a big black liquorice-looking beetle. The 'camera' angle is low down, looking up high, so the dog's nose and tongue is gigantic, filling the screen. This is how I imagine the eventual resting place of the poor wee baby bird. Who knows. It probably ended up on the bottom of the postman's boot.
Poor wee thing. What it could have made for itself had the nameless tragedy of its premature death not occurred. A moments silence please for quiet reflection.
Thank you. Your presence here is appreciated.