I watched a boy bury a dead bird at the beach. The carcass was already sandy before he began to push it around with a stick. Not in the disrespectful, childish way you may expect, but with gentleness bordering on reverence. After discovering the bird, the boy had prepared a shallow grave a few feet away in the damp sand. Now he scuffed and coaxed the bird to its final resting place. Likely just a day before, the bird was gliding through the salty air, hunting for a stray Dorito or a messy kid with a sandwich. But now this is the bird’s fate, forever
flightless, buried by a boy on the beach. His flock had
abandoned him here, perhaps after a memorial of their own. I wonder if birds feel grief when one of their comrades falls from the sky. Maybe they swoop down as one to bow their heads; a
final goodbye before resuming flying formation, but with a
gap now where there wasn’t one before. Regardless, the bird
ended up here, in the care of this small boy. I watched this
boy watch death. He bowed his head, he even appeared to
say a prayer to himself as his little lips moved silently. ▲
