A Bird
© Timothy Kozar
"A bird!" he said.
The bird screeched in response; a rasping squawk ripped from its throat over and over. Its voice creaked like a dead tree, and a red tuft on the back of its head quivered with each cry.
The left half of its torso was smashed to the white paint at the edge of the crosswalk, split open red along the crease. Pink snakes seeped from the slit. Victor thought they must be worms.
The bird's head swiveled and jerked - the only movement its broken body could muster.
As grave as the injuries seemed, Victor focused on the positive: the bird was still alive. So he scooped it up, worms and all, in his tiny four year old hands to take home.
He had to pry at the flat side a little to get it loose from the asphalt. It peeled off the ground like soft cheese.
He'd worked his way about 5 houses down to the intersection where he and his dad had once witnessed some massive sewage truck sucking leaves and sludge and water out of a drain like a gigantic vacuum cleaner. The process raised many questions regarding the series of pipes running underground. An entire world existed just beneath the surface, and he'd never known.
And now, on this hallowed ground, he happened to discover a bird that needed his help? He knew there was no way that this was a coincidence.
He cupped the bird in his palms in front of him as he walked, a couple of the worms dangling off the side like fleshy ribbons. They glistened in the sunlight.
No longer plastered to the pavement, the bird started swinging its working parts in a panic. It pecked at Victor's hands and fluttered its good wing the best it could.
"No," he said. "Just be still."
They'd have to nurse it back to health, of course. He knew it could be some time before the little guy was up and flying around again.
The bird stopped trying to peck and threw its head back. It hurled a furious melody at the sky. Black eyes squinted in concentration, tiny and wet. Its head swayed back and forth.
Victor laughed at the bird's song, still in disbelief that he held the animal in his own hands. He would've clapped them if they weren't already full.
But the song cut off, and the bird slumped over to his right. Way over.
"Mom!" he said, approaching home. "Mom, come look."
She hustled to the door. "Victor, where the heck have you..." She trailed off, spotting the lump of gore in his fingers. Her dark hair brushed her shoulders as she recoiled.
"Oh, God! Put that down and come wash your hands."
Her tone was harsh.
"Mom, I found him in the road. We can help him," Victor said.
"It's dead," she said.
"He's just sleeping," he said, eying the bird. "He was singing a minute ago."
"Victor, it's dead," she said. "And you're way too old to be bringing home a dead bird. They're covered in germs. Put it down right now, and come wash that filth off your hands."
He placed the bird down onto the dirt, hiding its fragile body among the tall weeds along the porch. That way he'd be able grab it before anybody else.
Just as soon as it woke up.