Quoth the Cardinal, "Nevermore"

A strange death

It happened quickly. That’s the way these things go.

The thud against the window came with a small echo. It was unmistakable from an errant acorn skidding past the glass. This impact had some heft to it. And so, bringing my beer along for the ride, I walked outside to investigate. The humidity made its presence known—such was the trouble with going outside in the summer—and mosquitos attacked my legs like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I rounded the corner to the backyard, and stumbled upon the scene of the crime.

As I suspected, a bird sat on the ground directly below the window. To my horror, it was still alive. A sinking feeling came over me. If it had been dead on impact, I could have found some macabre humor in the whole affair. Sure, the death of a bird is sad, but dying in such a slapstick way made up for something right?

Well, this bird was alive. It breathed and looked at me with vacant eyes. Its legs splayed out under its body in strange angles, angles unfit for flight, or perhaps survival. I sent a video to my family, half wanting to inform, half looking for guidance.

Perhaps the environmental center could help. Was I really going to drive 20 minutes out of the way to help a bird that had so little chance of survival? Perhaps I wasn’t giving it that chance.

Though I lament the rise of artificial intelligence is every facet of society, ChatGPT came in handy this time. I use it primarily as a search engine. I asked what type of bird this was, and what my strategy should be.

I ultimately decided, since it looked to be breathing alright, to let it get its bearings and fly away when it was ready.

If only it were so simple.

Sitting still proved impossible. Of course I checked the window. How could I not? I squinted my eyes and looked downward to find my window’s latest victim. Something was off.

I walked back outside to check on the poor guy, only to see how dire the situation had become. He was nestled in the bend of the gardenhose, eyes half shut, convulsing. I had to move quickly.

I ran to the back door, only to remember that I usually kept it locked. I then scrambled to the side gate and thrust open the wooden door. Zipping through the yard, I finally found myself at the front door. My dogs barked in confusion, and I had no time to even close the door.

Shoebox. I needed a shoebox. There were cardboard boxes I’d forgotten to bring to recycling in the foyer, but those would not do. Maybe if I’d forgotten to bring recycling yesterday the whole thing would’ve gone a little faster. Thankfully, the shoebox I was looking for sat in my room. I removed the books I’d brought home from school and brought it to the kitchen. Lining it with two layers of paper towels, I made a makeshift nest for the bird.

But my efforts proved futile. It was dead as soon as I arrived.

Really? That quickly? Just a few minutes ago it had been a frazzled, scared animal. Now it was a husk of something that once breathed.

I sighed and used some paper towels to pick it up. It rested lifelessly in its coffin, and I brought it up to the back porch to decide what to do now. The most fitting and poetic option seemed to be burial. Shovel in the garage, shoebox in hand, I went to the backyard once more.

There was a small patch of dirt near the back fence of my yard. It served little aesthetic purpose, making it perfect for burial. The whole was modest, as I dumped its body into the pit, I couldn’t help but feel like a mobster dealing with someone who just got whacked.

The bird rests there now. Soon the earth will reclaim it and it will be nothing more than the soil housing the worms that its mother used to feed it. Its only crime was having too much hope for something that lay ahead, seeking a clean, well-lighted place before things got dark. You flew too close to the sun, Icarus, but for a minute, you soared.

It was a baby cardinal, having likely just left the nest. How it had looked forward to that day when the sky would be its own. I like to think it had a view of the window from its nest. At least then it set its mind to something. Many believe that cardinals represent loved ones visiting you from beyond the grave. This one never grew those red feathers, and never meant anything to anyone.

In my experiences of death, it’s always been sudden. It’s encroached upon me when I did not ask it to, defined the entire day, month, year. It’s an irregularity, not only something that should not be, but the very opposite of being. The specter of it, no matter how small, is always palpable.

My one regret is that I was not with this cardinal as the life left its body. I couldn’t have made a difference. I had no grave moral obligation to do so. This wasn’t a person, after all. The thud sealed its fate.

Yet I could have been there. What might it feel like to have kind and gentle eyes looking upon you as the world fades away? Perhaps something like the light it desired to reach through the window.