________  ________  ________
   2019-05-03                                   /        \/        \/    /   \
                                               /       __/         /_       _/
   My grandmother's yard has always  been an  /        _/         /         /
"old country" yard. No  grass or flowerbeds,  \_______/_\___/____/\___/____/_
instead  all  functional  gardens,  fruiting    /        \/        \/    /   \
trees   and  space   for  animals.  When  my   /        _/         /_       _/
grandfather was alive he was always building  /-        /        _/         /
things, mostly out of metal.  Sheds,  tools,  \________/\________/\___/____/
carts, whatever he  needed.  My  grandfather
passed away a few  years ago now so his  tools and workbenches and things have
mostly sat in the  yard gathering dust  and, likewise,  as my grandmother  has
gotten older the yard has gone neglected.

   With her permission we're having our wedding  in  her backyard so  spent  a
good part of last  week clearing  the clutter and leveling the dirt as best we
could  so we could lay lawn down.  We found a lot  of  bits and  pieces strewn
around  the yard and  a  lot of  tools lost in the dirt and covered  over  the
years.

   We also found a lot of dead birds.

   Birds,  alive or dead are pretty common omens and dead ones make me uneasy.
Maybe you believe in omens, maybe you  don't,  but  there's something about  a
dead bird that makes me hyper-conscious of my own mortality and fragility.

   In  the  corner of  the yard  was  a bright blue shape that I assumed was a
piece of plastic or something but on closer inspection it turned out to be the
head of a Rainbow Lorikeet, buried to the neck in earth and debris.

   The sight rattled me.

   In that bird I saw myself, my current state and that of my mental health. A
fast, loud, colorful, clever thing slowly  being  consumed by damp cold. Wings
pinned by a build up of heavy, grey nothing.



EOF