When Will it Stop?

I found this poor hermit thrush on our front doorstep last weekend, just one of many birds to meet an untimely end at McBone Outpost 1211, known in some bird circles as the house of death.  While several of these tragedies were clearly accidental (and some clearly not), this time I'm not ruling out foul play. 

And what a senseless killing!  All a hermit thrush does is mind its own business, hopping around the brush, eating bugs and warbling its little heart out.  They're not the most sociable of birds, hence the name, and I felt lucky to hear its song every morning outside the window.  Alas, no more.

What manner of evil was behind this brutal slaying?  The bold depositing of the corpse on our stoop and the perfectly placed puncture marks at the base of the scull lead me to believe the perpetrator was not just calculating and cold-blooded, but also very feline.

nwb

Mourning a Dove

Here at McBone Outpost #1211 we try to make things as accommodating as possible for birds.  Sunflower seeds, thistle and a delicious cake of suet are always available for anyone willing to flap over for snack.

Sadly, this free lunch means an occasional casualty.  Here is a mourning dove who tried, unsuccessfully, to navigate its way through our front door window.

By the time I found this poor dead dove, its eyes were but two empty sockets.  What remained was yet another grim reminder that life is short and glass panes are, to a four-ounce bird with hollow bones, deadly.

nwb

A Birthday Portend?

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.

nwb