A serendipity

I stopped on my way home from school. There was a lovely creature by the roadside… I knelt down beside it to take a closer look.

A rush of tragic awe overcame me.

It was a bird, with soft beige-colored throat and an immaculately white abdomen, like snowy crystal. Its form was still pristine as though life still trembled in its dainty heart. But it laid still, the body stiff cold. Its eyes were peacefully— if not painfully— closed; its long, elegant wings stuck fast against its body. I stared at the tiny splatter of blood on its chest and wondered what caused its demise. I had no idea what kind of bird it was, but I was almost certain it was not of a mundane type— it was the kind of creature that would make me leap with joy when I caught a fleeting glimpse of, that I would attempt to approach every time, but would fail invariably. A creature known for its vigilance, and one that shrouds itself in clandestine mysteries. It was my honor, then, to see such a beautiful thing up close.

But something was wrong. The fall of an angel should not be approached with such imprudence, should not be touched with such intimacy; my presence here was an utter blasphemy. However, I also considered it my obligation to preserve its beauty. If I have had a camera or my art tools with me, I could have frozen the scene and kept it forever. Unfortunately, I had not. What a pity, I sighed to myself.

I ran a finger over its tender plumage. It was cold like the frigid October wind, lying on the decaying leaves.

At one point I felt the creature was endowed to me. The perfectly delicate body was lying there, defenseless; I felt myself indulging in the beauty of the corpse. How sacrilegious the thought is! How dreadful! It had occurred to me that I coveted the body but paid no reverence to the resting soul. My heart laughed at its beauty while the thing had lost its life… How dare I? Did I not love Nature as genuinely as I thought I did? I must have been wrong… I hope I was wrong… My hands, eventually, crept toward the bird and plucked off a few beige-colored feathers. They peeled off softly, almost willingly at my touch. At the same time, I felt an acrid sense of guilt and a bitter regret. I glared at the corpse with scorn— it was then a mutilated body haunted with the scent of Death and Decay, its plumage badly ruffled and a wing extended slightly, contorted. Tucking the feathers frantically into my pocket, I picked the animal up by its rigid reptilian leg with two fingers and flung it into the shabby bushes. How filthy it was, I spat to myself. My middle and index fingers were burning when I suddenly stood up and left.

When I walked past the lonely bushes a day later, I did not stop to see. And I never will, until a pile of bones is all that is left.