Over the period of one year, it seemed like I could never get away from dead birds. They were everywhere.

On the ground, two wings lay flattened in the sun, black and two feet apart—no body between. The body had been smashed, rolled over by a pitiless tire and obliterated; but the wings were left behind to create a great space separating the disembodied extremities on the hot pavement.

One day, there was another in a thick bush, upside-down and only partially exposing a stiff bloated belly. What had been chubby and full of song when alive, was then taught and crawling with maggots when dead.

Two wings, dried and sticking outside the porch lamp cover remained. The hapless bird had flown too fast and crammed itself between the opening and the ceiling, two feet hanging over the edge, frozen and dead—another absurdly dead.

I found feathers and dark brown oil on the side of the Contour with the little tufts flitting in the breeze, and the rest of him somewhere else.

Exhausted, deflated, and freshly ruffled black feathers sustain a pose of flight caught on the road—an avian shadow nailed to the ground again.

Their bodies had dried out, leaving the imprints of life steamrolled, the wetness of life desiccated and the lightness of flight blown, ripped from the right organs. In unexpected places, theses birds were comically blotted out so ordinarily for no crime at all.

These strange deaths, so random, never seemed as tragic as they were meaninglessness.

So how much more must it seem ludicrous to find meaning in such a peculiar death sentence of a man, body pierced and body torn, hanging between two thieves, broken, writhing and twisted. Without context, it is senseless murder or absurd martyrdom. How absolutely gross, and how perfectly silly. How sad.