My cat is a killer. About once a month she manages to fell a bird, for the guts or glory, I’m still unclear. But she clearly thrives on her instincts. Then I usually hear from one of my children that there’s a dead bird in the yard and I go to dispose of it.
This time I was really slow. There were two birds awaiting their funeral. When I reached them they were skeletons with a few scattered feathers. There were leg bones, but what got me were the beaks. These dainty beaks bare pecked at my soul. The bones were so narrow, so light. The intricate design was jaw dropping. And suddenly what I was doing was no longer clearing out debris from the front yard, but giving them a proper burial. The mundane made holy.