She is buried now.
Our chooks are too comfortable with us, occasionally it's dangerous, like when we're cutting up firewood they always seem to hop up onto the chopping block to see what we're up to, sometimes mid swing.
(I blacked out the registration number on the car because I know how irresistible a lot of us find chicken and I don't want any of you to be able to grab your shovel and track down her grave when you get hungry.)
The next day my Dad noticed that another bird had gotten in the path of the ford Falcon.
Also sad, but I just sort of kicked this bird out with my foot.
You can eat this one if you like. There was no burial.
It's funny how you feel infinitely more awful about killing a bird you know and love than some anonymous bird that nobody knows.
Is that funny? Or is that horrific?
I guess it's a bit like Dylan's song "Only a hobo".
In fact here's the song, pause the other song and click play on this one, and while you're listening to it be sure to remember that Bob isn't singing about a human, he's really singing about the bird in the image above.
There's an old Chinese proverb that goes
"A bird does not sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song".
And my direct response to that is, like Nelly Furtado is always singing on the 90's mix they play at the supermarket, I'm like a bird.