While dragging it out, which can be a challenge, I was distracted by the relatively aggressive squawking between a pair of bluejays. I have an auditory trigger and a fondness for their sound, dating back to the age of 13 when a visit with the family to nearby Bag Basin Park introduced me to their deft skill of catching airborne peanuts. Most recently, though, I associate them with the Jikoji Zen Center property. They are the soundtrack to an otherwise silent meditation, audible even over Zoom. It is typically a comforting sound, yet in this instance, it was more shrill, almost panicked than usual. And part of it was coming from the ground, not above.
It was at this point that I noticed one of them lying upside down, squawking and thrashing about, while the other responded from one of the neighboring trees. My first assumption was that it had somehow hurt a wing, as it was struggling to right itself without success. I approached it slowly, speaking softly so as to hopefully convey not being a threat, but who knows if that registers to a bird as benevolence. They did, however, slow down their thrashing and eventually did end up on their feet again. Sitting almost frozen in place while I quickly ensured the dog's access to the yard was blocked.
I told Jen what was transpiring before going back out to check on things. He was still in the same position while continuing a dialog with the other bird, although less responsive to them than they had been when first encountered. I sat at a distance, googling options for helping an injured bird. Jen joined me. As we talked over a few ideas, they started to thrash about again for a brief moment, then simply collapsed on its side.
It was difficult to know if they were resting, passed out or just straight up and died. It was the latter. After going up close to confirm, I placed the bird into a box and then into the organic waste container. Assuming that was appropriate. As I did so, the remaining surviving bird continued to chirp repeatedly while coming closer and closer, to the point of resting directly above the open canister in which the carcass of his suddenly departed friend lay motionless.
It was sad. Poignant. Moving. Grounding. Ultimately, it was "just a bird" amongst likely hundreds of thousands of identical ones scattered all across the valley, let alone Northern California. Hundreds likely die every day. Just not in my backyard, as I watch and connect to the realities of the fleeting nature of my own life.
I routinely wrestle with a nagging desire to somehow live a fuller and more productive life, to do more with whatever time I might still have. That will be the book, by the way. Still in the initial imagining, I must maintain and increase my focus on it.
"Late at night, when the wind is still,
I'll come flying through your door.
And you'll know what love is for."
- Paul McCartney