The Last Word On Nothing

Two weeks ago, while sitting on the floor building a puzzle with my toddler, I heard a window-rattling thud. I figured it was the neighbor’s soccer ball hitting the glass door again, so I got up feeling somewhat ticked. When I looked out the window, the first thing I saw was an absolutely apoplectic male cardinal, chittering madly and darting around the boxwoods off my deck. The next thing I saw was the bird’s offspring, a fledgling we’d been watching learn how to fly. He was writhing on the top stair, his left wing flapping and twisting while his right one lay unmoving. He was breathing heavily. He had flown straight into the glass, obviously at high speed. (My blinds were up on that sunny day and I’ve already ordered bird-deflecting decals, so please don’t @ me over this.)

I took my daughter upstairs, figuring that if we left, the male bird might feel safe enough to approach the house and try to flip the baby bird over, or maybe move him. When we came back, the young bird was still. The breath had gone from his breast and his eyes, half-open, gazed blankly to one side. The older male bird was gone. My daughter is too young to understand why I was now crying, so I brought her back to her puzzle without a word.

Then the male bird reappeared, still agitated but now less concerned about my presence in the window. He had food in his beak. I watched, incredulous, as he landed on my deck, hopped over to the baby bird, and dropped the morsel into his baby’s mouth. Then he flew to our patio table, still chittering, then flew back. He flitted around the dead bird another few times, checking out its face. Finally I had to look away. Continue reading →