Fallen bird

Sadie found her first. All frozen and stiff and cold. She nudged her gently with her nose, urging her to try harder, but it was far too late for heroic efforts. She came to get me from where I stood watching, hoping ... So I followed after, slipping and sliding down the hill to the foot of the cedar tree where she lay. Oh where had I been when this happened? Why wasn't I watching, so I could've helped? What happened? Were you just not looking where you were flying? Did you slam into this beautiful tree? Is that why your head is all twisted askew? What kind of hawk are you? She's about the size of a large pigeon, with a defined hawk's beak and talons. Her plumage is not unlike the summer ptarmigan, but there's a feeling of grouse about her...and she's not in my National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds. I shall make a pencil drawing of her tomorrow, and find her identity by calling VINS, they'll know why a broad-winged hawk failed to make the migration. Cally and I used to collect dead birds, barn swallows, sparrows and the like. We laid them in rows up in the attic part of the stables. The only way you could get up there was to squeeze through a small trap-door opening above the middle loose-box, having climbed up onto the partition wall. To this secret place, we brought our treasures, sometimes performing gruesome operations on them with pieces of broken bottle and Mum's favourite paring knife! I remember being amazed at how big their eyes were, but I don't ever remember them smelling, and they surely must've. Dad must have known about our secret hiding place, because I was the only one in the family to whom he gave the prestigious job of cleaning the pheasants, grouse and partridge that he and my brothers brought home from shooting weekends. In retrospect, it was a bit of a Tom Sawyer thing, he, pretending that it was the best part of the feast, and I, then, wanting to join in the fun. Dad had a gift for wooing you into the thing, without you realizing it was a trick. He taught me how to bleed brakes, and in those days before the boys' legs were long enough to reach the pedals of the old Riley, he often called on me to come and help him bleed the bleeding brakes! Oh, joy! No dusting or cleaning for me today, I have to help Dad! So here we are with a mystery on our hands. Our woods will be far less rich without you, whoever you are.