Last night, walking home, I was a few blocks away from my apartment when we saw flashing lights up ahead. Looked like a few police cars, maybe an ambulance. “Oh no,” I said. “Do you think my bike was stolen?”
Might sound self-centered, but that usually is the first thing I think when returning home. I often–especially when I’m riding every day–keep my bike locked up outside, despite the fact that my first bike was stolen from exactly there. (aghhh, note, please do not tell bike thieves this information!)
Anyway, we passed the emergency vehicles (looked like there wasn’t really anything going on, good news for my neighbors and me) and came to our house. I shook the tarp that I’d left on my bike to keep the rain off, trying to get rid of any puddles that had collected.
Instead, a small bird flopped out onto my foot. I screamed a little, and it took a few hop-steps forward, before giving up and going inert, like a feathery little donut. It just sat there, all tucked into itself. It seemed like a wet, lonely night to be a bird dying next to my bike.
Now it’s just a matter of hoping that it’s not still there when I go downstairs…