At approximately 8:30 this morning, the hammers struck...
The nest, which some wild sparrows built for themselves in a hole in the cinder block wall a few feet above my window, was demolished. A crew of construction workers smashed it to pieces. I only hope no baby birds were in it at the time.
The workers, who'd been methodically chipping away at the outer concrete wall since last year, finally reached the nest. And as any regular reader of my journal knows, I have been writing on occasion about this flock of sparrows for several years. I considered them to be my friends. Of course, I don't know how they felt about me. Probably not all that much. But I loved them, and I am devastated by this.
Armed with pickaxes and hammers, they made a quick work of destruction as they uniformly moved up and along the scaffold they erected along the outer wall. I could see their faces half-hidden by hardhats right outside my window. Even though I'm on the second floor and there's at least a thirty-foot drop to the courtyard below, the scaffold put them at eye level with me.
As for the sparrows, they're gone. They've fled to parts unknown. But sparrows are survivors who can endure all kinds of climates. Smart, shrewd and strong, I know they'll be okay. Although, right now, I'm sure they're in a state of shock at, losing their home in a sudden burst of inexplicable man-made violence.
Gone is their beautiful music. Gone are their chirps, tweets, whistles and throaty cackles, which for me was pure enjoyment. From what I could tell, those sparrows had no visible fear of me. Through the rows of inch-long holes that are a part of the design of my window's security screen, I'd quietly watch as they'd congregate along the window's narrow outer ledge. While, every so often, turning around to give me a quick looking over, only to resume whatever they were doing.
Theirs was a trust I had managed to earn. Always skittish and jittery by nature, the sparrows would usually stay put, unless I'd accidentally do something to startle them.
Now they're gone, never to return. This is the day the music died.
D.B.
The workers, who'd been methodically chipping away at the outer concrete wall since last year, finally reached the nest. And as any regular reader of my journal knows, I have been writing on occasion about this flock of sparrows for several years. I considered them to be my friends. Of course, I don't know how they felt about me. Probably not all that much. But I loved them, and I am devastated by this.
Armed with pickaxes and hammers, they made a quick work of destruction as they uniformly moved up and along the scaffold they erected along the outer wall. I could see their faces half-hidden by hardhats right outside my window. Even though I'm on the second floor and there's at least a thirty-foot drop to the courtyard below, the scaffold put them at eye level with me.
As for the sparrows, they're gone. They've fled to parts unknown. But sparrows are survivors who can endure all kinds of climates. Smart, shrewd and strong, I know they'll be okay. Although, right now, I'm sure they're in a state of shock at, losing their home in a sudden burst of inexplicable man-made violence.
Gone is their beautiful music. Gone are their chirps, tweets, whistles and throaty cackles, which for me was pure enjoyment. From what I could tell, those sparrows had no visible fear of me. Through the rows of inch-long holes that are a part of the design of my window's security screen, I'd quietly watch as they'd congregate along the window's narrow outer ledge. While, every so often, turning around to give me a quick looking over, only to resume whatever they were doing.
Theirs was a trust I had managed to earn. Always skittish and jittery by nature, the sparrows would usually stay put, unless I'd accidentally do something to startle them.
Now they're gone, never to return. This is the day the music died.
D.B.
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