Friday afternoon I found a dead robin in my yard.
It was hardly recognizable as a bird, twisted and mangled, holes in its abdomen, wings askew, tail feathers splayed. Flies swarming the wounds.
I left it in the yard. A possum or snake or dog or coyote or vulture may feast on it overnight. Who am I to disrupt the natural course of life and death in the wild?
At least I didn't run over it with my lawnmower like I did with another bird a few years ago. That one gave me a start and had me running screaming into the house.
This time, I checked out the situation and moved on to water the vegetable garden.
I look forward to not seeing the dead bird in my yard anymore, and seeing the live ones finding worms early in the mornings.
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