The Innocents

Something was out of whack. That something turned out to be a much larger issue than I could imagine, but this was the beginning, the day was young.
When walking the sidewalk of a major thoroughfare with my faithful, four-legged companion, I heard teeny, nervous “cheeps” coming from the bushes, and overhead two adult birds were hopping limb from limb, loudly chirping words of warning. I kept walking and with every step taken the picture became more clear, and I wasn’t up for the reality of it, not for a second.
With each step I flushed the budding scenario, eradicating it from memory best I could.
After I’d thrown out all the junk mail that fills my box these days and precious little else, I encountered two lithsome young gals who wasted no time chatting me up. The day was rife with possibilities.
“I can tell you like animals”, the tall skinny blonde said as she stroked my companion, who wasted precious little time putting her butt on the girl.
“Yes, this much is true”, I said.
“Well there’s a poor little bird out front who’s fallen from the nest”, she said, still stroking my girl’s rump, “or got injured some kind of way. What can we do?” she said, her face creased with worry, apparently disturbed by what she’d seen.
There I was, getting sucked right back into the situation I just flushed of which I harbored nothing but dread. However, I knew this to be a short conversation, having once been told by my grandmother -after trying to help a little bird who was hurt in her back yard, picking it up, holding it up to the squawking parents- that from that point on the parents would never again accept this little bird as my human touch had tainted its animal existence. As proof I saw the chick dead on the ground several days later, ants systematically dismantling it, and from that day on I never forgot my grandmother’s words of wisdom. I told the girl as much. Well, not the whole story, didn’t think the gals were up for the ant part.
She went on and on how horrible it was and how she wished she could do something.
I felt her helplessness, but I left her with the parting words, “Nature will take its course”, albeit an easy out, still, truism in its basic form.
As I continued my walk the plight of the poor little bird really started to get to me, what I’d thus far done my best to avoid, but seemingly couldn’t shake. And it hit me then, would I care so much if it was a human stuck in some horrible predicament like that? The answer was, of course, yes, that is, unless the human had some hand in his or her predicament, then my opinion would change entirely. Since I began taking in breaths of air on this spinning orb I’ve always felt a certain kinship with “the innocents”, those who are subject to the world in which man has created and continues to appropriate and subjugate at his whim and will. Overall, not a pretty picture. Oh no.
When my walk reached the little bird it was now in the grass median on the other side of the sidewalk, still crying for help, looking as alone and scared as anything or anyone I’ve ever seen. My heart melted. Of course, the adults overheard kept up their concerned warnings. I felt nothing but sorrow, futility, because even if I could manage to get the little bird into a blanket, the nest and the adults and brothers and sisters were way too far up in the tree for me to be of any help.
I turned away from this sad, sad event and returned to the relative safety of my domicile, even though the wound of this situation continued to fester.
Several hours later I embarked to do an errand in town and as I was about to get into my truck, I, again, heard the frantic pleas of the little bird. I walked around the corner and there it was, looking lonelier and more frightened than ever. So utterly alone and vulnerable
I couldn’t take it anymore, and went back inside and called an emergency vet.
The woman who answered wasn’t of much help, feeling as frustrated as I was by the situation and, all too well, understanding the realities. She said I could bring the young chick into them and they could treat it for any injuries, but barring that, there wasn’t much to do except to try and get it into a box and place it under the tree. I knew the baby chick would freak if I tried to get it into a box, and the adults would be dive-bombing me all the while. Not practical or doable. Too much stress on everyone, and for what?
I walked out front again. There it was, alone, far far far from its home, its family, and it continued to cry for help. I don’t know why, but I approached the little bird and it started to flail its way towards the busy street so I stopped.
I turned around and jumped in my truck, watching this poor little bird wobbling precariously on the curb as I passed. Driving away, I said a prayer for the little bird, truly hoping something miraculous would happen.
Along my way I met a man in the middle of a busy intersection carrying a sign that stated he needed money to get his dog out of the pound. I pulled up to the light as it turned red.
The gaunt, sunburnt man initiated a conversation with me when he noticed my four-legged companion there in the cab by my side.
His story was of a bad, rogue cop -his words- who’d called animal control after asking the gentleman if his dog was registered -even though on a leash, he emphasized- and further the man said he was shocked when, at that moment, he noticed his dog didn’t have on the collar, even though the man said he had one. He then told me that since this was the dog’s third such infraction, the bill was a lot more now, almost ninety dollars, and here he was, only four dollars short.
Blood rushed to my face. I felt immediate contempt for this guy. Allowing his innocent to be taken like that, and more than once?! ...Poor stewardship was his choice, see? That is, if his story was even true. I was disgusted, revolted to the nth degree by this, so-called, human being, shitbag by any other name. His momma should have her ass beat.
Innocents cannot and will not lie. Ever. One more time, mankind sunk even lower in my estimation, another notch down after this galling encounter.
All the way home I thought of this little bird. The heart-wrenching sadness I felt at the sight of this innocent little creature, hurt, frightened, and so very very alone in his predicament was more than I could bear. My heart hurt, my existence turbulent, absolutely convexed...
I turned into my driveway, talking on my cell to a good friend about my life intersecting this lost bird. As I parked I noticed I didn’t see nor hear the bird anymore. In a second I grew terribly excited and told my friend as much, eagerly accepting some miracle had indeed taken place.
Then I noticed... “it”... this strange, muddy speck in the middle of the road. I approached “it”, a growing dread with each step... and there it was, the carcass of the little bird. Dead. Killed. Run over by a vehicle in a road that cares naught for an innocent creature who may wander into it.
Over and over, I remember saying to my friend, “Oh no... Oh no... Oh no...”
I hung up and stood in the road, alone... as alone as that frightened little bird who until its bitter end cried and cried for help, but ultimately our world wasn’t very forgiving. And this little scared bird was now dead, and my world would never be the same. Ever. When in close proximity, death, of any kind, always exacts a toll
Later that night I found solace, priviledged as I was to watch a most glorious film on PBS called “Winged Migration”, where the value and the majesty of birds and a world they exist but which we never see became all too apparent during my viewing. Call the timing ironic, call it what you will, but besides the portent this days events held -and were continuing- this film was beyond anything I’d ever seeen. A whole new appreciation for birds and their world. Godsmacked was I.
As the story circled the globe, making you intmately privvy to the migration of this startling array of creatures, following age old instincts, there was a long, slow shot of a boat in the Amazon, and by the looks of it, obviously a poachers boat. There were several types of monkeys. and macaws in various primitive cages, being taken to God knows where. The monkeys were visibly shattered, their world of freedom and family and community forever changed. They hid their heads in the comfort of their stomachs, covering their faces with their tails and their hands, unable to even witness the horror of what their world had become. The birds were filled with ubridled fear, frantically biting their wooden cages, trying desperately to escape. Despite the unrivaled majesty of this film, and because of the well timed, vicious reality this scene imparted, this levity, this heartbreaking levity, my heart sank once again.
Again, I felt so ashamed, so alone, so very alone in a world literally bursting with a species in which I feel less and less in common each passing day...
The innocents deserve better.
We had a good, long shot at getting it right, to exercise proper stewardship over our surroundings, but as far as I can tell we’ve grossly abused that priviliedge almost from day one. We were given the most beautiful, sanctimonious, awe inspiring gift, and we raped it and continue to rape it, without any sweeping cultural nod toward responsibility or even culpability.
For now, continually subjected to the everyday horrors at human hands, I feel there isn’t anough war, disease, pestilence, starvation, murder, genocide, or cataclysm to satisfy me. Craven, our middle name. Bewildering annihilation and wanton disregard, our hallmark. My allegiance is to innocents, the meek who exist to bring beauty and meaning to our hollow lives, as well as the earth, our host.
I’ve more faith now than ever that God leads me where I need to be, but my faith in the human race declines each day I stand above ground. What resides in a man’s heart who chooses cruelty, destruction and malevolence? What resides in mine? A collision course between the two lies in wait on my horizon, and I know not the outcome, but I continue to walk toward it, emboldened, ready.
My kingdom come, thy will be done.