Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,


And never stops—at all,



 

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard,


And sore must be the storm


That could abash the little bird


That kept so many warm,



 

I've heard it in the chillest land—


And on the strangest sea;


Yet, never, in extremity,


It asked a crumb—of me.

This little tableau of death was laid out in stark contrast to the freshly fallen snow on our front path. The red was so intense that at first I thought an animal had managed to unearth some berries or rosehips from beneath the frozen crust. Then I saw the flurry of tiny feathers. There were no tracks in the snow, so a bird of prey—hawk? owl?—had probably swooped down and nabbed this victim in mid-flight. It happens every day. One moment a mourning dove is cooing its soothing song, the next it meets a silent end of quick violence. This tale of killing/dying/eating is an ancient one. Nature is cruel and beautiful in equal measure.

Join me in raising a toast to the fallen bird, to its predator and to the eternal dance between the two.