From Death, to Birth, to Death.

There has been a colony of Pigeons squatting in one of the grain bins at home on the farm (where I was staying last week) and we had to evict them so we could get some of the grain out.
The parents didn't seem interested in the relocation plans we had for their nests, so my mom and brother have taken charge of a newborn.

[this is a placeholder, actual pictures forthcoming, I forgot to take them off my laptop again last night...]

Newborn pigeons are homely creatures. Swollen greyish-purple eyes, pink bodies barely covered with scruffy yellow feathers, and an unsteady bobbing that reminds you of a drunken fan at a ska concert.
That said, the peeping and chirping when they're hungry is still pretty cute.

Anyway, the little guy/girl (you can't tell for a few weeks) didn't make it through the night.

After writing that poem about dying, I've got to wonder at what a strange and wonderful gift we have; being conscious of our own fragility and the fragility of others. A baby pigeon, as far as we can tell based on their behavior, has no more idea of its impending doom than a tree or a dandelion. We know. Whenever we think of death, we are reminded of our own destiny. Animals can feel pain, some have been said to mourn, but can they feel the sorrow that comes from the death of another?