A time to be born, and a time to die . . . (Ecclesiastes 3)
In spring it's easy to see the signs of borning everywhere -- birds building nests, frogs and toads extruding and fertilizing eggs, dragonflies and damselflies being "born" into their final mature stages, lady's slippers shooting up their first furred leaves.
Even the lake, seen from afar, seems re-born in the soft hues of early spring.
But looks can be deceiving.
There, on the pinestraw-strewn hill in the distance, flies and maggots work away at the still bloody mess of what's left of a crow's head (beak, forehead, little else) dropped by some larger opportunistic predator, needing to feed himself or herself and perhaps the young coming or the biological processes of building up protein for the producing of another generation.
On University Avenue a little later, approaching the parish church, I saw a squirrel flop and flip, flop and flip, in its death throes. Just hit apparently by a car on my side of the road, the squirrel jolted, not consciously, I think, but mechanically, involuntarily, nerve-ously. I slowed and stopped, wondering if I could pass while the squirrel lay on the pavement, dying. How does one just drive by? The jerking soon stopped, and I passed and wondered, Did the driver cringe with the thunk and then just drive on?
The thing about walking and snapping and blogging is this: I see death and dying now almost every day, and every time, I am stilled. I may have bad dreams tonight.
I will try to think on the "time to be born."
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