Flightless Birds

I have been having the unfortunate coincidence of running across dead birds lately. I don't know if it is a sign or not, but it is somewhat disconcerting. The first was a hawk. The sad thing is, in this case, I heard a cacophony of raven cries and looked to see as one of them dove to fend off the hawk (who perhaps had just killed one of their young) and it went somewhat limp and glided to the ground. When I happened upon it later, not intentionally, its neck had been snapped and it had landed in an apparent location equivalent to its last known trajectory. So it was a murder's murder.

The second was equally distressing. On the beach where I was walking to set up a shot that has been rolling around in my mind, I ran across a heron that was elegantly curled around itself, it's thin neck a gentle curve alongside it's limp body. It's feet were draped poetically out behind it, undoubtedly a consequence of the waves that seemed to place it on the shore in reverence. I took a roll of images because of its sad beauty and after the last was taken, my batteries died and I left the beach, the heron, and the purpose of the day behind.

As I was leaving, spent roll in hand, lifeless camera stowed away, I ran across a pigeon who had suffered a worse fate than the heron. If Mother Earth had been reverent to the heron, she had been alternately profane to the pigeon. When I found her disheveled body her feathers were awkwardly still intact, but she had been reduced to skull and beak with slight vertebrae emerging from the fluttering carcass. Where the heron had been lovely and sad, the pigeon was broken and disturbing.

The raven nearby that crowed at me had a ruffled wing that seemed to give him trouble, but he looked me square in the eye and flew away none-the-less. I left the others where they lay.