Birding [fiction]
On the walk back to my dorm room, I noticed a small bird pecking away at the concrete sidewalk.
On the walk back to my dorm room, I noticed a small bird pecking away at the concrete sidewalk. Not between slabs of concrete where dirt and small plants reside, but at the actual hard concrete as if it was punishing itself. I inched forward to see if the bird would snap out of its daze and fly away.
I got so close I could reach my arm out and touch it. Instead I sat there watching and wondering what was wrong inside this little bird’s head. I wanted to soften the blow – it was all I could think to do. I took a few tissues from my backpack and placed it in the target area. Its beak was already damaged.
The bird continued to chip away at the concrete ground. I sat down and watched silently. It was almost as if the bird's repetitive blows numbed my mind as well. I started talking to the bird about my mediocre day. Earlier, I found a fly in my salad and didn’t have enough change to buy another one. I balanced the fly between my chopsticks, took a good look, then put it on a napkin next to me. I continued to eat, I explained to the bird. Peck, Peck Peck, it replied – unchanged from before.
Occasionally, people would walk past the bird and me. They would turn their heads, questioning, but never stopping in their stride.
And then the poor bird fainted. Unsure of how to react, I gently picked it up and held it in my hands as I walked to my dorm. I figured someone on my floor could help. But by the time I reached the entrance, the bird had died in my hands. It simply never woke up. I felt no heartbeat.
In front of the dorm entrance was a flower garden. I crouched down and began to dig a hole to bury the bird. The ground was cool to the touch. The dirt crumbled at my fingertips as I buried my hands inwards. It didn’t take long to create a sufficient hole.
The bird was still warm in my hands, its feathers insulated the heat that was soon to dissipate. I put the bird in the hole and said a short, mediocre prayer – I had no faith that there’d be someone listening. But somehow, it still felt necessary.
I unlocked the door to my room and set my backpack by my chair and changed clothes. We had been assigned an essay due at the end of the week that I wanted to outline. We were tasked with analyzing a chapter of Heidegger’s Being in Time. But my thoughts were planted in the image of cold dirt pulling heat from the dead bird like water dripping into a sewer. I didn’t really take the time to consider what a strange encounter it was - me and the bird.
I shivered with guilt. I pictured myself, crouching next to the bird, a simple spectator. Was I any better than the mindless folk who walked past without stopping?
I went straight to sleep without touching my pencil.