Birdie, birdie

My larger objective is to share my love of words, not of birds, in this blog.  However, I had an Annie Dillard moment the other evening.  From my screened in back porch, I glimpsed a bird land in the grass and flap about.  Concerned about the well-being of the bird, I gently poked it, a female goldfinch, with a stick.  The bird gave every appearance of death.  Ever the optimist, I hoped it was playing "possum."  I went about my business refilling my feeders and changing the water in the bird bath.  The little lady bird persisted in its pose of death. As we were heading out to attend a commemoration of Woody Guthrie's 100the birthday, I vowed to give the lady goldfinch a proper burial the next day.  The next day, the birdie body was gone.  At first, I was saddened that I could not dig a little grave and humanly grieve, but it occurred to me that by letting the bird remain part of the natural cycle, I honored its little finch life more appropriately.