August, like a corpse shackled to a moving car, is still dragging along. This past Saturday, I came across a dead robin in my garden. I poked him a couple times with the hose to make sure he wasn’t sleeping in a funny position. His head rolled around, indicating to me that his neck had been broken, likely from hitting his head on the window.
I put on a pair of gardening gloves and scooped up the poor fellow. I was amazed how light he was. I don’t know what I expected a robin to weigh. Somehow, I thought they would have had more substance.
As I laid the robin to rest, his friends arrived, clearly in distress as they looked around for him. I displayed their fallen comrade to them. They formed a semicircle around me, letting off a strange sound as I buried the dead bird. It was almost as if they were crying.
When our ad hoc ceremony came to a close, the robins flew away, save one, who took a shit on the grave of his departed friend before he, too, flew off.
It’s easy to be seduced by nature. At times, it is even appropriate. This morning, I went into town to have my hair done. A woman sitting across from me ranted and raved about how Walmart and Donald Trump were conspiring to get rid of school uniforms. I would have much rather have been home watching the robins shit on each other’s graves than listen to that foolishness.
Birds, of course, behave foolishly, too. The doves, the supposed symbols of peace, fight each other for no reason, the crows are afraid of squirrels, and none of the birds have any interest in trying out my new feeder. Somehow, it doesn’t bother me that much. Birds Apparently risk their lives to have a good nap. We must cut them some slack.
As Bashō put it, "Come, bird of solitude, and make me melancholy!" Just don’t shit on my grave. It would be superfluous.