Predator

I hear scurrying on the balcony and a loud thump. Feathers puff into the air as claws scrape the floor and a tail points upwards like a spike. More shuffling and the cat proudly walks in the apartment with a bird in his mouth. I yell out, “Memphis, don’t bring that inside!” and he drops it on the mottled area rug. The bird twitches slightly as Memphis tries to bat it. I get some tongs and gently pick it up; it moves again, breathing ever so subtlety. I place it on the bed of soil in the planter box that rests on the balcony’s edge. The bird lays still, eyes closed, wings tucked tightly against its body. No more movement. It’s gone. Aiden says he is sad that the bird died. So am I. I mourn the loss of this little creature as much as I would for anyone else. It’s easy to do so in such a time that is as fragile as our feathered friends. The virus is much like the cat, ready to pounce when we’re not looking. Stay safe out there. You are not immune. Whether it be the disease itself that gets you or loss of income and stability, the effects will somehow clutch you.