It was the fifth day when the sparrows started falling from the trees. Most would just lump over silent, losing their grip on the branches; drifting lightly to the absolute of ground.
The pounding from the bigger birds was so violent you could feel it in your shoes – that kind of violence can be overlooked. There’s no beauty to it, only unabashed carnage and a deafening heart unsusceptible to the sick turns of splatter and bone.
With the smaller birds, the sparrows and cardinals and bluejays, you could feel the warmth of breath rise on the inside of your mask. It was as if death gave them enough time to sing one more song and stretch their wings before keeling over; enough time to clean their feathers.
And when you picked them up, there was no blood to wipe away.