Yes, this is a photo of the remains of a dead bird. Yes, possibly something really sad happened to it. Him. Let’s call it a him. Let’s call him Norm. No, Jesse. Jesse is a cuter bird than Norm, I’m guessing. Anyway. Jesse came to a sad end here if all you do is look at the photo and see feathers and ground on remains.
However, I’m choosing to see Jesse as a triumphant bird. A bird among birds. A bird no other bird could compare to in his fleet. Or, flock. Or congregation, parcel, pod, volery or dissimulation. (Did you know a group of finches is called a charm? Larks an exaltation? A kettle of hawks? A murmuration of starlings? I could go on all day…) (But I won’t) (Murder of Crows?) (Ok, that was the last one.) (I mean it.)
What I’m trying to say is, I’d like to believe that Jesse was ready for his end. He had a good life. He was good to all the other birds. (An ostentation of peacocks?) (DONE. I SWEAR.) He had spent his days looking out for the younger and weaker birds in his, umm, social network?
I don’t think he was afraid. I think he was matter-of-fact and proud of his life. His placement on the brick makes me believe he was willing to move on and make room for the next set of Magpies. (Tidings!) Or Ravens. (Unkindness!) Or swans. (Wedge!) Or snipes! (WHISP! WHISP! WHISP!)
He didn’t mind if his remains stayed behind, showing how his life had ended. He had a big party that night and went out in style. (A party of Jays! PARTY!!)