It was dusk. The odd time of the day when it’s not quite day but not yet night. FFJ was on her knees in the grass next to the pine tree, a yellow shovel in her hand. I stood behind her watching as she dug, the little dead bird next to my feet. I could see the string still wrapped around its wings.

A few minutes earlier we had stood in the living room of Supergenius HQ arguing about what to do about a dead bird. I argued in favor of burial, she was in favor of trash.

There must of been a look on my face that won her over. “You really want to bury it, don’t you?”
I nodded my head.
“Okay, let’s go.”

So there she was bent over in the grass on her hands and knees, a hot wind blowing through the humid night which smelled like the lilacs on the tree in the neighbor’s yard. I stared down at the dead bird, his two toothpick legs, mangled body.

“This is probably a bad time to start singing I see London, I see France,” I said.
“Uh, yeah.” She continued digging.

Bob Marley was singing in my head, Don’t worry about a thing. I said every little thing is gonna be all right.

“Well, there.” FFJ stood and brushed the grass from her knees and handed the yellow shovel to me. “Do you want to say a prayer?”
“I’m not the praying type.” Bob Marley continued, Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true. This is my message to you-ou-ou. “But thank you.”

Now my the poor little bird is in the ground and this morning as I drank my coffee before the Tibbles arrived, I realized the mourning dove was silent. Maybe for today, he is not so forlorn.