Spring Time Is Here

By

Alan L. Bryant

    Spring is late this year; the chill of winter still lingers on.  The birds ignore the

unpredictable weather, building nests and laying eggs.  Hatchlings can be heard chirping, begging and competing with siblings for regurgitated food rationed out by mother. 

     Though the young bird has been warned of the danger, the curious of the nest venture out before they are ready to fly.  Falling to the ground, the mother forgets he ever existed.  Competition for food prevents her from providing anymore assistance; she strives to save only those of her offspring who might live.  Nature punishes the young bird for his adventurous inquisitive spirit. 

     Covered in fine hair rather than feathers; a neck extended outward; a large mouth opened wide; like always, hoping to be fed; crying in a shrill voice caused by pangs of perceived hunger.  He is dead, but doesn’t understand or appreciate the hopelessness of his predicament.  Unable to walk far for the legs have not yet developed to the point of being able to carry the weight of his slim frame.  He continues to wobble back and forth, side to side, squawking in a disoriented manner; for if he stopped and listened carefully, he feared he might hear the contented sounds of those who remained in the nest.

      Poor little bird! … to die before experiencing life.  Why be born if this is all there is?  The cries of desperation intensify in frequency while adding a tired hoarse rasp to the pathetic pleas for help; his eyes become milky and sullen.  Nature is so unforgiving.  He made a mistake and now he must pay with his fragile life. 

     What little there is of the sun begins to fade away; darkness brings no relief.  Unable to sleep or give up the struggle, the baby bird continues to cry for nest – for food – for siblings – for the warmth of mother — for the way things were.  The noise he makes will quicken his death for there are creatures of the night, lurking in the shadows, looking for a meal.

     Fortuitously, the sound brings a sly smile to the fury face of a feral cat.   Slowly, stealthily, the cat moves closer to her pray.  Jumping up and pouncing on the small bird, the prowess of the hunter was wasted on so helpless a victim.  Between the jaws of death, the baby bird continues to cry.  Breathing becomes shallow as the blood streams down the side of the feline’s mouth.  Within the flicker of a moment the baby bird is dead.  To linger on is to suffer, to die gives rest forever.