I wrote those words in Sevy's Cosmica Sidera as one of Sevy's internal dialogues and although Sevy is based on a person completely separate from me, I think he's more like me than I care to admit. Sevy was called birdman because he poked around at dead birds. Not because he had an affinity for dead things, but he had this complete lack of understanding why life could not last forever.
Last week, I was waiting for the bus to start my commute and I watched baby pigeons playing in a parking lot. They were definitly babies. And if I had to put cartoony voices to them they would definitely be squealing in joy that their mates were playing and their collective curiosity surrounded the scene. There was a vibrance I scarcely notice with birds because of an unreasonable fear that they will turn on me, gather other avians and peck my eyes out. (Not kill me, just a painful and permanent reminder of their dominance leaving me in darkness so I can't see them coming after me ever more.)
I saw the cheerful little ones on a morning after I saw a featherless dead one lying in my path with flies gathering to eat its remaining flesh. And that was a day after I could not go into my mother's back yard because another featherless one was lying in the grass two steps out from the kitchen.
That's how I usually cross the dead birds some time late July, early August each year - the little ones that may have something wrong with them, discarded by their mama, or shoved from the nest when she is out swallowing bugs and seeds to vomit into their little beaks. "Where's Jimmy?" she would ask the remaining little bastards who reply, "Who? By my troth Mama, there were only three of us when you left."
But every now and then, there is a bird that appears to have fallen dead, full of its feathers without blood or anything implying foul play just lying in my path.
And I have nothing to say about any of this other than to say, it is in fact dead bird season again.