Where I Lived and What I Lived For

There is a story not unlike yours and mine about the two routes a bird can fly. One way is to prosperity and the other is to perdition. Into the heart of happiness or into the mouth of the cat. The light orange-brown ruffles of this particular bunting’s plumage suggests an easy childhood of warm weather and easy food. And warm weather indeed has been its usual home. For its short life it needed no predatory protection, nor did it need blankets or fire. It jumps from branch to branch with alertness and a quick flutter of both wings and will. It has brothers and sisters of the same size and color but not the same audacity. Like the monkey named George this bird had an eye for borders. In age it flew no closer to its family and home as the paper I write on strays from the pine or spruce originated from. On the outskirts of its home a house-cat lived – a large furry mound of danger. It crouched in silent voracity in the expansive wheat field below. Most of its killing had been in regards to mice, but it would snack on a bunting, a bluebird, or a bullfinch if the opportunity arose.
By the time the bird had reached two months in age it routinely flew over the field to feast on the hearty wheat it offered. This type of behavior was heroed by youngsters, condemned by loved ones, and largely ignored by others. But after a few months of daily travels to the field virtually every fellow bird had all lost interest in the new route to sustenance. They had the winter to worry about. Luckily, our main character had also realized the potential of the wheat stalks as a fantastic weather barrier. Instead of building the traditional shelters as his peers, he merely settled down mid-field in a particularly dense tuft of plants. On one blizzardy evening he scoured the hillside for suitable protection. It came in the form of the sleeping house-cat. The bird lightly landed beside his overnight shelter, and was pleased in his approach to find it pleasantly radiating heat. The bird pressed its weight against the warm mass. This place was the best resting place of all. Warm, soft, comfortable, and large. The bird relaxed and lay still for a while with its beak pressed against the flesh of its den. Its last few moments consisted of a swift strike across its mid-section – one that sunk deep and stung bad– ; a feeble attempt to regain bodily control; another otherworldly blow which tore one wing off and snapped the other loudly. He did a bloody dance away from the cat that only made him an even easier target for a third and final strike. The birds eyes flushed with blood and it continually opened its beak in reflex, a sort of silent apology across the snowy field to other buntings. Within minutes it is devoured by the cat. Its memory is lost. It lived for no one, and no one lived for it. Fellow buntings recall it only as a reminder to stay put – to follow the path more followed, to choose safety over exhilaration, and to realize when your family no longer needs you it is time to say goodbye.