Dead Bird Don't Lie

The dead bird had its eyes gouged out by ants. It lay in the bush next to the pavement. The ants streamed out like red tears, happy and satisfied. We were out on a walk. He was the first one to point out the bird. “It’s a jungle myna” he said. We examined the bird so as to get some clue regarding its demise. It seems the bird died of starvation, maybe it refused to eat. The white patches on the base of its primaries were exposed and sodden yellow with mud from overnight rain. There were too many dead birds that we see on our walks. In the beginning we didn’t think much of it. It was when she shows apprehension that I too became aware of it. Is it just the birds? I am seeing too many dead insects. They gather in great numbers, disoriented by the street lights and bright windows, next morning I see them motionless and dying of exhaustion. Insects carry no emotion, atleast I am not able to decipher; they bear the same expression of delight all the while as if dying was matter of delightful inconvenience. They are not even baffled. Sometime I pick them up to see any change of expression. It is the same appearance of gaiety on each insect. The moths, the beetles, the lacewings all seem to mock at my intrigue or maybe I am too self centered to read their intent. I sometimes get nightmares of laughing insects that comes out of dead as if it was just an act of deception. This nonchalance towards death angers me at times but I feel helpless. The moment I start seeing dead I see more dead. It is as if I was being attuned into vicious reality like you focus on a voice in the crowd and you hear it loud and clear over the ruckus. It though is not the right comparison I feel; it’s not the voice in the crowd it is the scream of utter desperation that one is habituated to look away, despite jostling crowd a great widening vacuum surrounds the person, and if you were ever to look at his way you would be sucked into a vortex of horror. When I walk away it brings great sadness of never able to fully understand myself. There are some parts of us we want to avoid, and the desolate man in the crowd opens up a mightier desolation in us. It’s on the horizon still we ignore the tell tale signs of things going wrong. The fishes plop up dead one morning along the lake as if conspired to kill themselves from some unknown agony. With every death I too die a little. Parts of my flesh detach and shape like a bird and fly away.  I bend down to put my ear on the earth, maybe I could hear something. Some say earth speaks. I am unaware of the language but I try. There is meaning for all of us if only we could listen.