#37

My friend and I were walking through a field next to a river, just after the last of the winter’s snow had melted. Dead grass padded our feet, and bare branches scratched at our legs. Everything was brown, one way or another. Tan or beige or chestnut or coffee. All browns. That’s why the robin’s red breast and yellow beak and gray belly were so easy to spot. We stooped down to examine the lifeless bird. There were no signs of foul play, so we were left to imagine the other ways a bird could die: heart attack, old age, choking on worms, heart break—which is different than a heart attack, poisoning, internal bleeding from a previous collision, avian flu, or simply a lack of excitement over the changing seasons. We covered the body in old leaves, and when the Spring came, we said we would come back to bury it in the brown earth.