I bend down and kneel in the garden’s damp mulch, and take a closer look.

Partially hidden beneath the leaves is a fully formed bird, a beautiful wood thrush.

Its creamy breast is thrust upward as it rests on its back in the undergrowth, with its head buried beneath.

The plump belly is dabbed with brushstrokes of soft black, so vivid against the white.

Its tiny feet are rigid wires, curled as if wrapped around a perch.

The eyes are tiny, dried peppercorns.

Perfectly intact, no puncture wounds, no blood.

Just dead.

After grabbing my gloves, I lift its weightless body and take it across the lawn to bury underneath the shade of the cedar tree.

Theo trots over quickly, wanting to paw the dirt, curious, intent. I hold the little bird up to his nose and tell him not to mess with it. I wait to let the lesson sink in.

After a bit, I cut a rose from the rugosa bush and lay it across a rock that covers the loose dirt over the tiny grave.

Crouching in the morning cool, a moment, a peaceful prelude.

Death, unexpected.

Some days, the lawn feels like a prayer rug, rolled out for me, requiring my bare feet, my steady attention, my silence.

the lawn feels like a prayer rug, rolled out for me

A bow to the humility of not knowing anything really, about Nature, about bird species or bird calls, or migration patterns.

But today, a tiny wood thrush’s broken bones, with its soft breast pointed skyward, it feels like an offering.

I am witness, a kindred animal.

A simple garden task, to remove the detritus from the yard.

But still, the reality resonates, the little bird and me. We share this garden, these hopes for a little life, this small time on Earth.

I roll up my sleeves and tuck my hair behind my ear. It’s just a bird, I think.

I’m just a single animal organism myself, I think.

The grass flattens as I walk across it towards the house. My mind sifts through the material. What makes me think that I could ever be separate from this bird life, this animal, this beautiful creature so ingeniously created with such care?

It blows my mind that I am a piece of all of this, but that I habitually forget that fact, and that forgetting comes at a cost.

The loss of this small moment of connection.

My feet bare, my mind clear, my heart open.

I am a bird.