06.18.06, 8:08 PM

It happened right as I was pulling into my driveway. The little bird fell from the sky and smashed into the hardpack dirt. As I got out of my car, I could hear it's desperate cries and it's mother's anguished calls. I walked over to where it lay flapping for all it was worth and looked down on it.

Would that my actions could match my desires. If that were so, it would have rolled itself over and taken back to the skies where it belonged, to the joyful song of it's relieved mother.

It's legs were broken so badly that it is doubtful that even with professional care it would ever regain use of them. Had I touched it, it's mother would disown it and who then would finish it's lessons on the life of a bird. Which flock would take it in?

The only compassionate thing to do was to kill it.

But I do not want compassion and so I do not give it. Who am I to say when it's fight is lost? Who am I to tell the bird when it has had enough? Who am I to decide what course it is nature should take.

We humans interject where we should not out of pride and the assinine belief that we ever know what is for the best.

I can still here it's cries from outside. I could end it's misery, but it's the bird's fight, not mine. Anyway, I'm still rooting for his recovery and heroic return to the sky.

You go, little buddie! You can do it!

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