The Painted Bird

Dead Dove

A true story from a few minutes ago

The magpies are loud, always loud.  The ruckus in the cottonwood outside my window took a while to get my attention.  By the time I moved to investigate, it was too late. Even Cooper was laid low enough to stay behind in the house - labs are rarely so deflated.

Outside, I yelled and clapped and stamped my feet.  Magpies rose from the branches like dust from an old rug, in billowing clouds of wing and cry.  The crow they were harrying jetted away in a different direction.  And I started to pick up feathers.  Not crow black, not magpie white, but grey.  Dove gray.

There were so many feathers strewn across the deck.  Not just big wing and tail feathers, but downy clusters, pins bloody.  I found her and buried her beneath the lilacs.

**********************

The artist that lives in my writer head is done with this piece, right here.  But the writing teacher that supports the artist, (or does her best to quash the artist so she can keep a job) has some more to say here.

What was a lone dove doing there, caught in a fight that wasn't hers?

Was she roosting when they all arrived in their war?

Was she killed some other way, and all the fighting from above just happened later?

Do people who get involved with caring about this kind of nature stuff have any legitimate claim on your attention?

I like a text that asks more questions than it answers.  People like what they're used to:

Remember Gunsmoke?

Doc to Festus:  Your brain must get lonely up there in your skull, rattling around like a mustard seed in a tin can.

Grace to Grace:  Your brain must get hungry up there in your skull, with nothing but your own questions, rattling around like mustard seeds in a tin can.