Three dead birds
Before I moved into the LaLa a bird flew into one of the windows and died on the side porch. Freaked me out but M came by and picked the bird up and disposed of it without flinching. Then when the house was almost finished, the 11 foot windows had gone up in the office and a bird flew smack into one and dropped on the shed roof overhang of the downstairs porch. Again, S was here and he jumped over and knocked the bird down to the ground and disposed of it. Yesterday, a bird flew smack into the east facing window – the one that looks at the bayou – and now it is lying belly up next to the gargoyle that sits there. And there is no one, and no way, to get to the bird.
So for two days, I’ve come up to my office and been horrified to find the bird is still there. And when I took a shower outside, I saw feathers sprinkled around, and thought, oh horror, what to do?
But I was thinking about the portents of dead animals. A squirrel that fell from a tree on Perrier and Napoleon and circled three times before dying that signaled a return to San Francisco. A series of three dead birds in the mid 90s that warned of miscarriages one, two and three. And now the house has been christened by a trio of songbirds colliding with the outer shell. Death always symbolizes birth. Perhaps that is why I dreamt of my pregnant friend’s water breaking and again of beginnings and endings.
Three little birds.