A Bird in a Small Box

As any young boy, I threw stones at birds and small animals in earnest hope of striking them.  I pitched my stones far and wide for several years and soon stopped considering what might happen if my stone ever found its mark.

For some reason, I woke this morning with thoughts of the day when, at the age of about five, I raked up a handful of gravel from an alley behind our house and, at once, flung the whole lot at a robin perched quietly in a nearby cottonwood tree.

One of the stones struck the robin and the bird dropped like beanbag knocked from the branch.

“I hit it!” I blurted in disbelief.  When I ran over to investigate, I found the robin hunched on the ground below the tree, quivering.  Upon seeing the bird, my sense of success and victory immediately dropped into a well of disappointment.

That was not what I wanted.

I don’t know what I expected, but I felt awful about the robin I found there in the shade of the tree.  I scooped the bird up and ran home to seek the advice of my mother.

I am guessing we all have a version of this story.  At the end of the story the bird perishes in a small box and we mostly stop throwing stones.

--Mitchell Hegman