Goose Flesh

Its August 23 and we have had 22 days of 100 degree plus weather this month with promise of likely another week of brutal heat. The garden is dead, the grass is near dead--the temperature of the water in our pool is 93 degrees. There is no relief for any living creature. We found a dead black bird floating in our pool skimmer. A young bird in glass eyed rigor. Did heat inversion make it impossible to fly? Did it land in our pool hoping for fresh water and the density of salt in water prevent it from returning air bound? Did my aged birder--my feline Sir Bug awake from a dream of feathers, longing for a hunt, stir from retirement to chase the bird toward the pool.

Yesterday when I came home from a meeting there were more than 25 birds in my front lawn, picking at the wet grass, turning their heads towards me slowly as if I was the interloper. A few of the birds flew-up and then landed on the far end of yard, as if to accommodate my need for entry, and to show me they would not be easily intimidated. They waited, all eyes on me until I crossed the sidewalk to the door. Goose flesh. Who in the future walks over my grave of decaying sinew and bone? Momentary glimpses of Hitchcockian deja'vu. I toyed with the thought of reclaiming my yard. A simple flick of the hand to turn off the sprinkler would dislodge the flock of blackbirds and the lone blue jay. I remembered the Birds and the lifeless juvenile I found afloat. Dead eyes reminiscent of obsidian, depth-inscrutable, glazed yet still open, and I wondered why I averted my form from his vacant gaze. I went inside and quickly closed the door.