On our way to the newsagents to get the Sunday paper, we happened to chance across a dead finch, not a few hundred yards from our house. It lay directly in the middle of the pavement. The bird was in perfect condition and looked as if had flown into a car or struck some other object and died of its injuries. Worried that another animal might disturb the creature or a person might kick it unceremoniously into the kerb, I used a plastic bag I normally use to scoop Alex the Wonderdog’s poop to pick the bird up. It’s plumage and condition were perfect and I put the animal in my pocket, half-hoping that it was only stunned and that the warmth of my body might reveive it and half-knowing that the bird was stone dead.
I took it home and in the back garden laid it on the grass to photograph the dead bird. There was no miracle. It wasn’t going to come back to life. It looked so peaceful on the grass. Eventually, I felt very sad for the bird and put it back into the plastic bag, which was now its shroud and put the animal in the rubbish. These are the same birds that feed in our garden on our feeder and fly around. This is the only way you’ll see one up close and the fragile beauty of its feathers and primordial ancestry indicated by its raptor-like feet held me entranced. The Missus suggested it might make a good album cover – along with the picture of the dead mouse I found in the garden last year.

Now I am worried that my lone reader will think that I have a morbid curiosity with dead animals. No – I am just fascinated by them – I prefer them alive. It’s just only only ever see them up close when they die.

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