Behold the twitching, dying form of a cedar waxwing, one of nature's most glorious winged specimens and one of my very favorites. Annually the waxwings come to feast on the berries from various trees and bushes that surround our house. On the eve of my 34th birthday, this poor juvenile bird met its fate in the form of our dining room window. The unmistakable thump of bird meeting glass could be heard from every corner of the house, and I knew as I came running that an ill omen had come calling.
What doom, what evil fate awaits me, I cannot say. Having watched hundreds of movies, I know only this: a dead bird can only mean perils and pitfalls galore. Death, disgrace, ruin--they dwell in the shadows, drawing near, an avian nightmare about to come true.
Happy birthday to me.