Perched in the tree are cedar waxwings, newly arrived. They sit on the branches; arranged like new leaves of spring, and sing and eat fruit. These little birds congregate to rest from a long trip north.
My attention is back to my work in hand, knit, purl, purl.....thinking , not thinking, smelling the fresh air through the open window, watching a squirrel hang upside down on the lilac bush to raid my friend's bird feeder.
I look up to see the small flock has taken flight in a startle. One member of their congregation not seeing the wall of the house next door. It lays on the neighbors lawn struggling.
I run across the street to check. It is still breathing. Its wings seem fine. It does not struggle as I try to handle it gently to see if perhaps it is just stunned and needs someone to watch over it until it regains its senses. I run back to the house to look up the phone number to the local Audobon Society, when I look up and notice that it has stopped moving.
Retuning to the bird I find it dead. I pick it up in gloved hands but I can still feel its warmth in my hand, its small body so light.
While this has all gone on the wind has changed direction, clouds have filled in the blue spaces.