The Beauty of Birds

A few days ago, I went outside to feed my rabbit when I got home from school. It was a rainy, soggy day, as most this week have been, but cheerful in its own way. The greens of the grass and the trees were vivid, bringing everything else into a color-contrasting perspective. As I turned the corner to face the front of my rabbit's cage, I looked down to see a bright yellow bird lying on the cement.

Had I not been looking down, I would have undoubtedly stepped right on him. I paused, still leaning over, one foot ready to step forward, and examined the little bird. He was lying on his side, feet curled up under him, eyes shut. He bore no signs of rough treatment or injury, but there he lay, dead. Right in front of my rabbit, who hopped around his cage with bursting energy. I was shocked that something so bright and beautiful and healthy-looking could be dead, and amongst so much life.

I mourned the bird's death as I scooped him up with a shovel and carried him to the back of the yard, yet my mood was brightened by his brightness. I dug a little hole, and buried him right next to my rabbits' graves next to the creek. I felt paradoxical senses of wrong at covering up all that beauty, and right at burying the dead. I tried to wish his soul well, and I hope that my showing I cared helped him somehow. I hoped that reached him, wherever he is.

As I handled the bird (don't worry, I never touched him with my bare hands - I won't get sick or anything), I marveled at how fragile he was. As I scooped him up on the shovel, I had to be careful not to bend his neck grotesquely. And he was so light - light as a feather. It's a miracle that something so fragile could survive at all, providing for itself and probably its family. It's the beauty of nature, and it's incredible.