The Hawk

I was touched by Rose's story of The Sparrow. It serves as a reminder as to how precious and fragile life is. The beating of our own hearts is a surety that we, many a time, take for granted. Realising that life is fleeting is a necessary step we must take if we are to live to its fullness.

Death is indeed the greatest tragedy; though it is also the greatest inevitability.

The Sparrow reminded me of something I witnessed a week ago but neglected to write about for it slipped my mind.

I'd just finished some shopping in West Philadelphia and I was seated on a park bench on the edge of campus having lunch whilst watching the human traffic pass by. A number of people, I noticed, were taking pictures of something behind me with their camera phones - so I went to investigate when I'd finished having lunch.

Not ten metres from where I sat was a sight not seen in the urban jungle. There it was, a formidable looking hawk, eyes ever vigilant, standing proudly amongst a flurry of feathers. At its feet, the dishevelled cadaver of it's prey - a pigeon.

They are axes of natural order, mortality and predation. Though it is true that both the hawk and the pigeon are mortal creatures that cannot subvert the inevitability of death, there is something to be said of their relation to personification of the creatures.

The 'feral' rock pigeon, Columba livia, is gluttonous, mindlessly flys with the flock, is seen as vermin and often preyed upon.

The hawk, Accipiter gentilis, is a powerful, intelligent and elegant hunter that flies alone and can seize prey many times its size.

A cold and clinical dichotomy this makes for, but there is a kernel of truth in the world being constituent of pigeons and hawks. Which of these we are is often characterised by our interactions with others. The pigeon is exploited obliviously whilst the hawk's instinct is to hunt: and capture it often does.



Xavier

The Sparrow

I tried to rescue a sparrow today, to no avail.

It was tiny, curled up and barely bigger than a golf ball. It had fallen from a nest about three metres above street level, onto the concrete. The little creature was only half covered in feathers and his stomach moved achingly with each breath. It was only membrane, barely classifiable as skin, and you could see things moving inside him with each movement.

I saw him and was too scared to touch him. I ran to a payphone and called a friend to ask what to do. I ran into McDonalds to grab some serviettes and a burger box.

When I ran back, his eyes were closed and he was barely kicking his little legs. I made a little nest in the box and scooped him up and carried him carefully back to my apartment.

We got inside; I cut the toe off a stocking and put him inside so his head stuck out. I cupped my hands around him and held him, trying to warm him up. He was cold as ice, but eventually he started perking up a little. I called him Gerald and sang lullabyes for him. I called the wildlife sanctuary so I'd know what to do. They assured me that he'd be alright. I mashed up breadcrumbs, milk and honey for him and tried to feed him with some tweezers. I turned on the heater, and taught my housemate how to look after him so that I could run to the shop and get a hot water bottle for Gerald to lie next to.

But he died. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing. We let him be for a good while, hoping that he was just sleeping so soundly that we could register his heart beating. But he turned cold, and when we gently moved him his head just lolled to the side like it was going to snap off his neck. I felt this rising wave of tension and pain coming up to my throat. My housemate wrapped Gerald up and made a little paper box for him. The box was so tiny, it was so thin and small that it looked like there was nothing inside it.

We buried him in the garden bed next to the train station. Housemate said, "Poor little guy," and we walked inside. He went back to playing video games and I sat in my room and cried.