The blue jay on the patio

It’s a stunningly beautiful September day, full of cool air, bright sunshine, birdsong, and a light breeze sweeping a gentle hand over the scene in front of me: an ever-changing landscape of squirrels, chipmunks, and birds. So many birds. There are chickadees, nuthatches, flickers, jays, cardinals, downy woodpeckers, hummingbirds, grackles, wrens, mourning doves, starlings, and finches. Some coming singly, others in clumps. If one of the resident bluebirds would make an appearance, the Disneyesque vignette would be complete. But today this lively scene is also a still-life portrait.

As we sat eating our lunch earlier today, Charlie noticed a blue jay trying to get a sip of water from the birdbath that sits on the flagstone patio. A squirrel chased it off, yet the jay didn’t go far. It sat, in a huddled way, just a few feet from the birdbath. “Maybe it’s injured,” Charlie said. “Should we bring it to the wildlife rehab center?”

I looked over at the bird. It was obviously still alive, but from what I’ve seen of dying creatures, only just. “I wouldn’t want to approach it; scare it when it’s so vulnerable.” I replied. “I think it will be gone in a couple hours.”

It wasn’t even that long. I didn’t time it; I just know that a few minutes later the jay was lying on its side. And some minutes after that, it had the limp stillness of death.

This event makes today a day of both sadness and sacredness for me. Also, of privilege. Aside from occasional roadkill, we rarely see dead animals, let alone observe the transition. Here, I had the honor of witnessing this wild creature’s last moments of life. I also had the peace of knowing that it died quietly, out of danger, with others of its kind continuing with their lives all around it.

I’m writing this as I wait just a while longer before I gather up the bird to place it in the undergrowth in the hedgerow, with a flower from the garden and a sprinkling of sunflower seeds to honor its life and its passing.