169/365: Why must the songbirds die?
I saw a robin die today.
It was killed by another bird--I got out of the car and chased it off, but it was too late.
How such a small thing could feel like a tragic loss is beyond me, but it did.
It was a terrible sort of beautiful, resting in the grass. Its neck was bent at some ungodly angle, with its beak tucked beneath a tousled wing. Its tiny head was stained with blood and the breeze ruffled its delicate feathers.
Why must the beautiful things die?
I nearly cried, because at that moment I realized--
How very frail we are.
Magpies are the scum of the skies. Seriously. And I'd really love to shoot one right now.
(#170 in comments)