The Dead Bird

I brought Peter to the front of the house to show him some dark purple opium poppies; there was a dead juvenile chaffinch on the ground. The wee thing was unmarked and still warm. It must have flown into the window. We were both sad to see it. 

These things happen. At least the cat didn't get it. That would have been a far nastier end for it. Back when Martha was small I might have kept the corpse for her to have a funeral. She used to love that. Instead, I buried it in the compost bin.

I told Bert,

I put that wee chaffinch in the compost. Might do it some good.

What! Sure it's dead.

I meant DO the compost some good.