Today, we found a little baby bird that had fallen out of it's nest. As we carefully scooped him up with paper towels and put him in a little box to protect him from all the little Cub Scouts (we were at day camp) that wanted to touch him, I was stuck with his perfect beauty.
Sometimes I forget that such perfection exists.
He was so scared. He kept cheeping for his mother the whole time we had him. When we took him back to where we had found him, to wait out for his mother, he died.
I don't know why he died. Maybe it was because 125 noisy Cub Scouts that crowded around to see him was too much to handle. Maybe because he was tired or hungry or thirsty or just plain frightened.
Samuel and I buried him under a tree after everyone went home. I don't think I've ever seen anything so sad as his sweet little body, already stiffening, his little crooked legs curled up.
I wonder what his mother is doing. Is she looking all over for him? Calling for him? Did she hear him calling for her and was she desperate with fear, but unable to get to him? Does she know that he died?
I've been crying all day about that little bird.