Saturday, 16 February 2002 | Bird secret

The male woodcock fluttered and sang and swooped in the sky, and a group of us—strangers, mostly—hovered quietly by the edge of the woods, pointing, whispering, and watching through binoculars as the sun faded. So quiet that I could hear the crackling of a nylon jacket as someone readjusted, the divorce of velcro on someone's camera bag, the muffled beeps of a friend's insulin pump from underneath layers of clothing. The group stood fascinated, and, I must admit, I felt like they all possessed some secret that hadn't been shared with me. A bird, looking for a mate, flying and singing. I liked the arc it drew in the sky, its distinct song, its predictability. But was there something more? I had driven ten miles and stood in the cold for an hour to see it do another version of what birds do daily right behind my house.

While I was busy squinting and observing (the people around me more than the woodcock), my cat Leeches was busy devouring one of the birds at home, splitting it jaggedly down the middle, scattering feathers, body parts, and blood on my back porch.