It wasn’t dead when I found it.

  I’m not even sure what drew me to the window in the first place. But I went. I suppose I should have, even could have walked away at that point… let nature take its course. But, I didn’t.

  Its neck was broken. Its wings outstretched and feathers splayed in a way more peacock than blackbird. I pushed open the window, having almost forgotten its deceitful boundary, though the glass was stained where the two had collided.

  And then I tilted, just bent my upper body so I was leaning over it. It was in pain. No, I couldn’t be sure of this, and yet, I was. I think the eyes captured me, held me there until the option of walking away had faded, leaving me with no choice at all.

  I backpedaled, reached out a calloused and cracked hand, and grabbed Capote off my desk. Returning to the window, I raised the hardcover.

  My hesitation was brief, but present. The bird lay wounded beyond repair. And, somehow, I thought I knew what it wanted, what I would want were I the broken blackbird.

  Or maybe I justified certain wants with inferred ones. Either way, it was the right thing. I took no pleasure in watching something suffer. Nor would I let it.

  The book fell at exactly the same moment the door opened.

  ~Chapter 2~

 

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