thwonk
Today, a “thwonk” on the sliding glass door. Kona the dog lies right inside. I slide it open, stepping outside, making sure Kona stays in, and a little bird stands dazed and motionless on the ground. Cece the cat lurks above, glaring. “No more violence today,” I think, grabbing a glove. I get the little bird to hop onto glovey hand, and it stares into my face as I bring it towards a little palm tree. The bird stares. A rock is clasped in his beak. I stare back and walk inside.
Out the window, the bird stays in the tree, and I think of the life around me: Cece aiming for the frozen bird wide-eyed in shock, out for blood; Cece chased away by Kona, who has no idea that there is a bird to be hunted; Kona, earlier today, nearly eaten by my family’s dog, who was not so friendly. The bird is set in place on a branch.
So I grab some water for the bird, who is stuck in place on a branch (it has been thirty minutes). I take a jigger and fill it with water. How benevolent of me. And I present it to the bird, who flies away in fear.
