Dead Pretty Things
Last Sunday, as I began my morning walk, I interrupted a pair of bunnies in the driveway. They weren't munching on fallen apples from the tree or standing stock still hoping I wouldn't notice their furry presence in my path. No, these bunnies seemed to be doing what bunnies do best. Or, at least, trying to.
One bunny just sat, looking somewhat aloof. The other approached with interest, trying to sniff her cotton tail. She's then turn on him, as if to say "not so fast there" and he'd jump. Bunnies often jump, but Casanova’s straight vertical sproing was something to see. After the leap, they'd be out of position and he'd start over again.
I watching for a time, entranced by the comical spoing, then walked down the driveway. Rather than running when I go too close, they moved just a little at each step, clearly more interested in procreation than preservation. I stopped at the end of the driveway to watch one last silly bunny pass, but now they froze, pointedly ignoring me. I moved away, glancing back to see them unfrozen.
I walked on, in a good mood from the observed bunny antics, until I came to my first dead thing. A tiny brown furred form laying next to the curb that didn't start at my approach. At first I thought it was a chipmunk, it was that small. It was a very baby bunny. Ears not big enough, legs seeming to go the length of it's body. It was adorable, looking ready to leap up to steal the audience's hearts. But there was a spot of red next to it and its leaping days were done. I felt sad, but the memory of its randy relatives kept me from feel too sad.
It's not like I never saw dead things on my walks. I thought about the dead until I came to a butterfly. It was splayed on the pavement and didn't move at my approach. I stopped admire it, fearing it was dead, too. I thought I saw it move a little to the side and I imagined a platoon of ants taking dragging the corpse as a prize.
I waited, watching, needing some confirmation of the butterfly's life or death. It was black with amazing neon blue spots edging the top of it's wings. The color for the spots leaked out on the bottom of it's wings, giving a stunning fade effect. It should have moved by now. Why would it just sit there when the monstrous creature looking at it could easily do it harm?
Then, when I'd given up on it's life, it flexed it's wings. Up from the ground, coming together, held for a long moment, and then back down. Perhaps it was a freshly minted butterfly, still drying it's wings? It was beautiful and not dead. I couldn't help but smile.
A little farther on I came to a flower I'd seen the day before. It had been dead then. It was notable for its bright redness, even when brittle and dry, on the drab pavement. Today, the flowers had been crushed. All that was left was brilliant red confetti; far more cheerful than when it had been whole.
Further on a flock of birds takes flight, startled by my presents. For a moment I'm excited by the chaos of wings, but as I realize its just pigeons it seems somehow less impressive. I immediately feel bad for thinking that; the birds are still wondrous, in spite being so common.
As I round the street corner, the birds begin to return. Someone has left out some bread for them, enough that my being there can be tolerated. They come back a few at a time, pushing and shoving at the food. On the edge of the crowd, standing off just a little, is an outsider.
The outsider is a dove. You could mistake him for a pigeon, he's a very close relative, though a little more elegant in construction. Where others are mat gray, he's silken with hints of more subtle colors. He stands out like a gentleman among the homeless. He's doing his best to fit in, so he can take his place in the soup kitchen line, but that only make him stand out more.
As I stare at the dove in fascination a fellow dawn walker rounds the corner. He's elderly, dressed all in white with a shock of white hair above wrap around sunglasses. He's got a good head of steam and I have little doubt he'll trudge right past without even noticing me when the birds take offense and launch into the air again. He comes up short "what the..." Then notices me for the first time. Grumble, grumble, "mornin," hrumph, trudge. I stifle a laugh.
Moving on my own way, I find the birds' retreat. The power lines just across the street are bowed with pigeons. And one lone dove. As I walk by, the birds begin to return to the feed in twos and threes, moving in surprisingly neat order, closest first. The dove moves last.
We've shifted from the dead to birds, now. Sparrow, blue jay, starling, and the ever present robin joined me at times. But no crows. I enjoy the crows most. They talk to one another. Sometimes they yell at me, sometimes they seem to accept me. In spite of their questionable reputation, I find the crows somehow reassuring.
On the ground, by the curb, was a clump of something. I thought it might be the wing of a bird. It might just as easily have been a used coffee filter. I didn't look too close. Further on, I found the rest of the bird.
A mass of jet black feather lay on the ground, covered with a skeleton. It was almost too perfect, like a prop from a horror movie. It was also fascinating and somehow regal. The skeleton was bleached white, but the feathers showed no sign of putrescence. The feathers were shiny, silky, jet, arrayed in an unlikely symmetry, like a heart. Upon this coat of arms rose an intricate line of vertebrae, bending to form a proud arc. The skull was cocked as if placed by an artist design a macabre heraldic symbol.
I stood over it, transfixed. The bones were so white. How could it have been here that long, nestled in the curb? I'd been past there just a day before and hadn't seen it. Perhaps it had lay somewhere, face down, back where the other feathers were, waiting for... what? An admirer? To cap off a very strange morning walk?
In spite of all the dead things, or perhaps because of them, I felt content on my arrival home. The lawn was alive with bunnies and birds hopped around them, all enjoying rotting apples or sometimes the flies that gathered there.
One bunny just sat, looking somewhat aloof. The other approached with interest, trying to sniff her cotton tail. She's then turn on him, as if to say "not so fast there" and he'd jump. Bunnies often jump, but Casanova’s straight vertical sproing was something to see. After the leap, they'd be out of position and he'd start over again.
I watching for a time, entranced by the comical spoing, then walked down the driveway. Rather than running when I go too close, they moved just a little at each step, clearly more interested in procreation than preservation. I stopped at the end of the driveway to watch one last silly bunny pass, but now they froze, pointedly ignoring me. I moved away, glancing back to see them unfrozen.
I walked on, in a good mood from the observed bunny antics, until I came to my first dead thing. A tiny brown furred form laying next to the curb that didn't start at my approach. At first I thought it was a chipmunk, it was that small. It was a very baby bunny. Ears not big enough, legs seeming to go the length of it's body. It was adorable, looking ready to leap up to steal the audience's hearts. But there was a spot of red next to it and its leaping days were done. I felt sad, but the memory of its randy relatives kept me from feel too sad.
It's not like I never saw dead things on my walks. I thought about the dead until I came to a butterfly. It was splayed on the pavement and didn't move at my approach. I stopped admire it, fearing it was dead, too. I thought I saw it move a little to the side and I imagined a platoon of ants taking dragging the corpse as a prize.
I waited, watching, needing some confirmation of the butterfly's life or death. It was black with amazing neon blue spots edging the top of it's wings. The color for the spots leaked out on the bottom of it's wings, giving a stunning fade effect. It should have moved by now. Why would it just sit there when the monstrous creature looking at it could easily do it harm?
Then, when I'd given up on it's life, it flexed it's wings. Up from the ground, coming together, held for a long moment, and then back down. Perhaps it was a freshly minted butterfly, still drying it's wings? It was beautiful and not dead. I couldn't help but smile.
A little farther on I came to a flower I'd seen the day before. It had been dead then. It was notable for its bright redness, even when brittle and dry, on the drab pavement. Today, the flowers had been crushed. All that was left was brilliant red confetti; far more cheerful than when it had been whole.
Further on a flock of birds takes flight, startled by my presents. For a moment I'm excited by the chaos of wings, but as I realize its just pigeons it seems somehow less impressive. I immediately feel bad for thinking that; the birds are still wondrous, in spite being so common.
As I round the street corner, the birds begin to return. Someone has left out some bread for them, enough that my being there can be tolerated. They come back a few at a time, pushing and shoving at the food. On the edge of the crowd, standing off just a little, is an outsider.
The outsider is a dove. You could mistake him for a pigeon, he's a very close relative, though a little more elegant in construction. Where others are mat gray, he's silken with hints of more subtle colors. He stands out like a gentleman among the homeless. He's doing his best to fit in, so he can take his place in the soup kitchen line, but that only make him stand out more.
As I stare at the dove in fascination a fellow dawn walker rounds the corner. He's elderly, dressed all in white with a shock of white hair above wrap around sunglasses. He's got a good head of steam and I have little doubt he'll trudge right past without even noticing me when the birds take offense and launch into the air again. He comes up short "what the..." Then notices me for the first time. Grumble, grumble, "mornin," hrumph, trudge. I stifle a laugh.
Moving on my own way, I find the birds' retreat. The power lines just across the street are bowed with pigeons. And one lone dove. As I walk by, the birds begin to return to the feed in twos and threes, moving in surprisingly neat order, closest first. The dove moves last.
We've shifted from the dead to birds, now. Sparrow, blue jay, starling, and the ever present robin joined me at times. But no crows. I enjoy the crows most. They talk to one another. Sometimes they yell at me, sometimes they seem to accept me. In spite of their questionable reputation, I find the crows somehow reassuring.
On the ground, by the curb, was a clump of something. I thought it might be the wing of a bird. It might just as easily have been a used coffee filter. I didn't look too close. Further on, I found the rest of the bird.
A mass of jet black feather lay on the ground, covered with a skeleton. It was almost too perfect, like a prop from a horror movie. It was also fascinating and somehow regal. The skeleton was bleached white, but the feathers showed no sign of putrescence. The feathers were shiny, silky, jet, arrayed in an unlikely symmetry, like a heart. Upon this coat of arms rose an intricate line of vertebrae, bending to form a proud arc. The skull was cocked as if placed by an artist design a macabre heraldic symbol.
I stood over it, transfixed. The bones were so white. How could it have been here that long, nestled in the curb? I'd been past there just a day before and hadn't seen it. Perhaps it had lay somewhere, face down, back where the other feathers were, waiting for... what? An admirer? To cap off a very strange morning walk?
In spite of all the dead things, or perhaps because of them, I felt content on my arrival home. The lawn was alive with bunnies and birds hopped around them, all enjoying rotting apples or sometimes the flies that gathered there.