251: Cedar Waxwing

We were outside as the sun began to fade, surveying those special spots the dogs leave in our yard--the places where grass is coming back, the places where we'll need to spend a little attention in reviving, and Zephyr was hopping around, needing attention. I looked around to see if I could find something I could toss for him and I caught a bit of yellow--a little cedar waxwing, fitting in my palm, lying belly down on our wooden basement doors. The dogs had nothing to do with this; they weren't even aware of the bird until I held it out for them to sniff. It's beautiful, isn't it? Nearly still-warm, so sad, and we debate what happened--did it fly into the dining room window? Did it consume the crabapples from last summer, wrinkled and clinging to the tree? In a month, that tree will be brilliantly pink, ready for new fruit, and I don't know enough to be able to say if that rotten fruit was poisonous. I tucked it into a paper towel, into a box, and I'm keeping it in the garage and some day, I'll check it again; I'm curious about the skeleton. I wish I could keep it as it is right now though--the feathers are so soft. Indeed, I will learn more about this little waxwing and perhaps you'll see a poem emerge. Songbirds. Is spring really nearly here in Minnesota?