Funeral for a Cedar Waxwing

I wish I had something else to show you on this day. I wish, in fact, that I could have shown you a photo of this bird, alive and well and enjoying the bounties of our yard. But that is not the way that this bird arrived at our doorstep on this day. It arrived past care and past help.

When I came out of the house in the morning, the pretty little bird was lying on a table in our driveway, where my husband had placed it after finding it, deceased, along the road. I told him what it was: a cedar waxwing, Bombycilla cedrorum. We have many birds in our yard, but I have seldom seen such a bird as this here.

My husband had found a small, broken, blue bird egg, and that was on the table as well, along with some flowers. He explained that he just couldn't leave the bird lying by the road; it would be too insulting. This is the pathway of all dead and/or dying creatures he finds on our acre: he brings them to me.

I knew immediately that we must arrange appropriate services for the bird, to ease its passing. Wearing a glove, I placed the bird on a clean, white cloth, on a tray. And I got a bunch of flowers - rhododendron, daisy fleabane, dame's rocket, and columbine (Aquilegia) - to surround it. Many creatures came to show their respects. T. Tiger was the master of ceremonies; a role he has stepped into reluctantly.

We had a little ceremony on the deck for the cedar waxwing. And I looked at it closely, which is a thing I like to do when I find a creature deceased. When do you ever get such an opportunity for such a close viewing? It wore a pretty little black mask. Yellow feathers at the base of its tail. No red on its wings at all. And very little black on its chin, so I presumed it to be a female.

And then the mourners left, and the cedar waxwing continued to lie in state. The sun came and went, and the breezes caressed the bird gently. I went by often and looked out the window to admire the little bird, and pondered the mystery of its dying.

Hit by a car, I gathered, based on the location where it was found and the abrasion on its back. Gone too soon. And I had this thought: Like energy, life is neither created nor destroyed; it merely changes from one form to the next. These things are beyond our understanding, but my heart knows it to be true. We do not end. We continue on.

We had a private interment in the meadow, just T. Tiger, the Crittergators, my husband, and me, in the last of the day's fading light. We admired the cedar waxwing's beauty, and said how sorry we were, and commended it back to its Maker. We said how thankful we were that such beauty lives in this world; and how sorrowful we were to see it pass.

I finally took off my glove and caressed the bird with my bare hand; I couldn't help it; I had to touch. So soft. So light. So amazingly detailed; its delicate coloring like a silk painting. And at the last minute, I threw a handful of honeysuckle in, to make sure that its afterlife is fragrant and sweet.

And finally, I covered it in, and I planted sunflower seeds and wildflower seeds on top of the new grave. I said some prayers for safe passage unto the Next Place, where we hope the sun is as golden and warm and the breezes are just as sweet as here.

Go well, beautiful little bird.
We will hope to see you in the Next Place.

I held a funeral for another pretty bird a number of years ago, and the song I picked to go with it was this one, which I find good use for here as well. Here are Tracy Chapman and Natalie Merchant, with Where the Soul Never Dies.

There'll be no sad farewells.
There'll be no tear-lit eyes,
Where all is peace
And the soul never dies.