Sunday Mourning

On Sunday I found a fledgling on the ground; he had already passed away. I was saddened to know that this baby finch had fallen from his nest and will never fly. I held him in my hands for a few minutes and stroked his down feathers. He had also begun growing flight feathers which had a bluish tinge to them. I waited, half-expecting that he would suddenly wake up from shock. When I was certain he would not, I found a spot close to where the nest is and buried him. The next day, a pair of mourning doves wandered around in the same place where the fledgling had died; it brought me some comfort.


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