The fledgling grosbeak died. I found him just now in the yard already turning black and filled with maggots. A sad sight for such a beautiful creature and I find I am feeling enormously sad about it. I question my decision to release him, was he not well enough? Did some underlying illness strike him and end his life so early? Was it the neighbor's cat, which I hate with the fervor of a religious zealot because he so greedily kills my yard birds and leaves them uneaten in his gluttony. I suppose I should not blame him and I do like cats, I have one of my own and I adore her. Still I think people should not let them out, they are perfectly content to be indoors, safer for the cat and the birds. Still this little magnificent bird is now dead and rotting. How quickly these things can happen and it strikes me. This blow feels stronger perhaps, because even now I border the yawning edges of a great chasm of grief. Lately I have been dancing around it and throwing things down into it to see how far it goes. I am almost cavalier about it since I am just reluctant to feel a damn bit more of grief and its cold maggoty hands. It is the tender-hearted nature I have that gets me. I am so painfully optimistic and hopeful, sometimes the world does not write fairy tales and when it does they are brief, beautiful and full of wonder. So here is to my little grosbeak friend and for his finding a way despite my better judgment into my heart, may you be reborn as a giant great horned owl, for reasons I will not mention...