The Death Of A Magpie

The Watcher loved to fit a walk into her day. On the rare occasions when it didn’t happen, she always felt as though she’d missed the possibility of something quietly magical.

This morning she took her favourite route — the longer one that led her across the meadow and past the old birch tree.

She set off with her bag slung across her body. Inside were the small essentials of her wandering: her phone for photo opportunities, a little purse containing dried flower petals from her garden, a dog poo bag — useful for carrying home any small treasures she might find — and a packet of wet wipes.

The day was beautiful, and she was able to walk without the encumbrance of coat, hat or scarf.

The sun teased out her freckles while a soft breeze brushed her skin, filling her heart with warmth.

Part way along her route was what the Watcher liked to call a meadow — though in truth it was simply a field bordered on two sides by a main road. Still, this meadow was the highlight of the walk.

As she stepped from the pavement into the meadow, she was immediately engulfed by a sense of peace and awe, for the meadow was resplendent that morning.

Dew clung to the grass, sparkling like tiny jewels on each blade. It made her want to pull off her walking boots and socks and feel the wet grass beneath her feet. But she was, in truth, quite practical — and the thought of carrying muddy boots and washing her feet when she got home was enough to quiet that slightly wild idea.

Yet this morning something felt different in her meadow. Yes, she knew it did not truly belong to her, but she had long thought of it as hers alone.

The grass was still heavy with dew, and although traffic moved nearby, it was strangely quiet. Instead there was a cacophony of sound rising from her favourite spot in the meadow — the old birch tree that stood at its centre.

She paused, taken aback.

The Watcher moved forward cautiously, scanning the ground and branches to discover what was causing the birds to make such a ruckus.

As she approached the tree, her heart sank.

In the dew-soaked grass at its roots, a bird lay crumpled while crows circled above it.

It lay on the grass at the foot of the tree, and even as she watched, the crows circled back toward it for another strike.

She rushed forward, waving her arms to shoo them away, and then saw clearly what lay before her.

A magpie.

Her favourite bird.

The magpie lay mortally wounded beneath the tree.

The clamour above her was its family — fellow magpies crying out in alarm and warning.

The Watcher stepped closer, shielding the injured bird from the crows, though it quickly became clear there was nothing she could do to save it. For a moment she stood there in uncertainty, searching for some wisdom about what to do next.

One thing was certain — she would not leave the magpie to suffer.

I’ll sit with it, she thought. At least I can keep the crows away.

So she sat cross-legged on the grass near the dying magpie — not so close as to alarm it further, for surely her presence was already unsettling for the distressed bird. It could not understand that she was trying to protect it.

She stayed close enough to drive away the marauding crows whenever they dared approach.

Above her, the magpies continued their calls of warning. They did not understand the presence of the Watcher either, and to them she was yet another threat.

The crows retreated to a nearby tree, watching patiently for their chance.

The Watcher remained where she was and spoke softly to the dying bird, telling it of wondrous things it might experience once it let go of its mortal body.

There's something about watching a bird die that holds you still.

She lost all sense of time, so absorbed was she in the quiet vigil beside the beautiful creature. It seemed strange to her that the closest she had ever come to a magpie — a bird she loved so dearly — was in this moment of its dying.

It truly was a beautiful bird, with its iridescent blue-green tail feathers catching the light.

Suddenly the magpie stretched its wings, as though it were about to take flight.

For a moment the Watcher wondered if she had been mistaken — if the bird might yet live to see another day.

But then the light faded from the magpie’s bright eyes, and it moved no more.

It had passed over.

The Watcher would have loved to take the bird home and bury it in her garden, but she felt a deep reverence for the magpie and respect for its still-calling family.

Instead, she opened her bag and took out the small purse of dried flower petals. She gently scattered them around the still bird.

The breeze lifted a few of them and carried them softly across its feathers.

Then she stood quietly and spoke to the magpies above.

“I did not mean to frighten you. I mean no harm.

I’m sorry for the loss of your dear brother.”

And then she simply walked away.

She will carry that sweet bird in her heart for the rest of her days — grateful that she was able to stand watch as it passed over.

“I notice what notices me.”