Oh no. I open my window shade and there's something I don't recognise on the windowill. A little dead bird. Yellowish markings. How did it get there? What happened? I can't look at the little thing. All his friends are up in the tree, flying among the falling snow. And he's dead. How am I going to get him off my windowsill? Maybe I'll ask Ernst. No that's really pathetic. Maybe if I take a picture of him, it will be okay and then I'll be able to move him. I can't look at him. I leave and make coffee in the kitchen. Grinding beans. Boiling water. Sitting in my chair, looking out the window. I concoct various schemes for the dead bird removal.
The next day, I sneak up early in the morning and take photos and plan how to move the bird. It still bothers me. But I am going to do it.
After four days of bird removal contemplation, I get the bird off my windowsill into a paperbag and move him to the trash. Even though that seems mean. I only screamed twice. When he was stuck under the windowshade and one other time. My mom told me I could not fling him off the patio, in case he exploded and created more of a mess. That would be mean too. I guess. Anyway, he is gone now, to bird heaven.
Birds and ducks in Amsterdam:
They were skidding into landings, slipping around on the ice-- and flying about. I watched a long time, their beauty.