Speak

I walked a good long way on the beach today. Part of the way to where I was going I saw this big beautiful dead bird. He looked as if he had just landed, like he has flown low over Lake Superior aiming for a place to rest. I could almost see him approaching from just over the horizon like big birds often do, their eyes trained on a perfect place. A bird always seems to land on purpose.

But part of his wing was buried in the sand so he had to have been there for a while even though the waves of Lake Superior can throw up a fair amount of sand fast. Less than a day, I thought. He was still beautiful, his feathers in neat rows, the ring around his neck fine like a hand-tied bow tie. Such a fine beautiful bird.

Ahead a band of plovers was scurrying in the sand, their long little beaks pecking at invisible insects, running about with their business, so serious in their efforts. When I would get too close, they’d signal each other and flush into the air, dangle over the lake for a minute then resettle on a new patch of beach further away.

I feel the contrast but it’s too easy. One life over, new life sprouting all over the beach. To me, there is no comparison between the big beautiful bird and the band of plovers. My heart is with the big beautiful bird.

I want to go back and stroke his feathers, feel their evenness, right the splayed wing. Look closer. See if maybe this big beautiful bird is just sleeping there in the sand and might wake if I speak to him.