Dead Birds

Abstract

I didn't know exactly when my feelings for birds changed. I had once gone for walks in the state park near my home expecting a gift, knowing that I would see a bird that would delight me. I awaited the spring migration of birds through the Piedmont of South Carolina, where I live like a prisoner anticipating release, marking the days and watching and waiting for signs of its coming. First, out of the cold, almost silent, barren winter woods, the lengthening days of January and February would bring the renewed song of the resident birds: cardinals, Carolina wrens, brown thrashers, and robins. Then the fresh, budding leaves of poplar and oaks of March, April, and early May would produce the hatching of caterpillars and other insects. That would entice north, migrating waves of vireos and wood thrush, varied species of subtly beautiful warblers, and bold and brightly colored grosbeaks and tanagers. Each morning, with increasing excitement, I would record these in my journal. But last spring was different. I seldom took the time to look for birds and wrote nothing. For reasons I didn't understand, much of my enthusiasm for birds and most of the rest of life had died.