I saw a bird sleeping on the pavement at the bus stop the other day. Laying over a folded wing on the cold cement, back to me, I couldn't look at it's face. I wondered what my little feathered friend could be dreaming about. Probably flying, with a tail wind, heart racing, moving faster then he'd ever flown before over the land. I wished I could be in that dream too. My eyes started watering as I squinted through the wind.
Part of me knew that bird was dead, but I could not bring myself to believe it just yet. I walked over to see it's belly, and face. Eyes were closed, sleeping, just as I expected. I wanted to think he was smiling. I wanted to move him onto the grass where he would be more comfortable, or maybe into the low hanging Arbutus behind the bus stop. I could not bring myself to move the sleeping bird, in case I disturbed him and he woke too soon from his soaring adventure.
Or to find he was limp and cold and lifeless.