The Death of a Finch

Yesterday, as I puttered around the house, I noticed that one of the finches that feeds at my feeder out back wasn't looking so good. He rarely left the ground. He was listless and his feathers were puffed up. He looked tired and kept closing his eyes and breathing heavily. As the day wore on, it was obvious that this little fellow had chosen my back patio to die. It isn't unusual. Over the course of the four years living here, I have scooped up many little finch bodies. If you think about it, it makes sense. There's food on the ground from the feeder, there's water so long as you can still jump up to get it, and there are no predators. Why not die here?

In the evening, before dinner, I made banana bread. As I was washing up, I looked out and there he was, hunkered down, eyes closed, breathing hard. All the other birds were gone from the feeder, but next to him stood a solitary mourning dove, still and gently waiting. The dove stood for more than 15 minutes, quiet, dozing. Sitting vigil with his small, dying friend. I have never seen anything like it.

A short while later I took the trash out. The dove was gone and the little sick finch was over by the sage bush. He hopped away as I stepped off the patio. When I came back to the house I noticed he was perched on the edge of the uncovered window well, looking down.

I knew where I would find him in the morning.