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May 4, 2003
"Dis yo boid?"
My yardman, Warren Peace, was holding a leaf-blower in one hand and pointing to a small, blue bird lying still on the patio near my backdoor steps. I leaned over from my position on the top step and identified the bird as an Indigo Bunting. It lay on its back, both legs pointing stiffly toward the sky, its eyes, little Xs.
I straightened up and looked at Warren who had retreated ten feet in deference to my bending. Warren is slow-witted, about 5'5" tall, ridiculously muscled, between 30 and 65 years of age. I once saw him lift my house to vacuum under it. He is strong. Strong and earnest. He's not the kind of person to whom I'd say, "Why yes, Warren, that is my bird. I prefer my pet birds to be wild and, if at all possible, dead."
Instead, I shook my head and replied mournfully, "No. That's not my bird. But I'll give him a proper burial."
Warren nodded as if satisfied. He turned around, cranked up the blower, and blew.
© 2003 by the beastmaster