A touch of death

The children have noticed a dead wood pigeon in the home yard. We go together to see the bird who lies lifeless on the lawn in front of a parked car.

I go to a nearby forest to bury the bird. On the way, I notice a lone wood pigeon on the roof of the house, the same place where a pigeon couple has been settling in throughout the spring, and I feel a bit down.

I dig a hole under a big aspen and lay the bird on the bottom of it. This area is becoming an actual graveyard for birds: waxwings crushed into the window, a fieldfare squashed under the car, and now a wood pigeon dead for unknown reasons.

When I return home, the children are going to bed. I stroke their heads and say good night. The older child flinches at the stroke and asks worriedly: “Did you wash your hands after you buried that bird?” A touch of death and microbes potentially passing through that feel threatening to the child.