And this, their real offense: killing all the pretty songbirds who used to visit us until I begged my husband to stop refilling their feeders, because we were only accelerating the killing time of the rapacious hawks. He gave me a look (he often does), as if to remind me that nature was never once kind, that the ecosystem abides by the law of big preying on small, which I know (I am not stupid). My heart, however, is stupid.
"Have you found dead birds?" I asked him the other week.
"Oh, yes," he returned, rather too cheerfully for my taste. "One every other day or so."
I have been most consistent in my life about rooting for the underdog. Even as a very small child my brain would undergo contortions so as not to leave anyone or anything out. I rotated through my dolls so that none would go unnoticed. I ate everything on my plate so that no food group would feel left out. My mother derived great mirth for years over my worrying about the peas on my plate. "No pea left behind!" she'd chortle, and when she did I'd wince, and remember anew that her heart, while adequately serving its purpose of beating her through life, had not grown three sizes that day, or any day. Which was not a bad thing, to my mind: I would have preferred to possess a more regular heart.
I used to wonder if my sensitivity to tiny details would preclude focus on what really mattered, but now I do not. As it turns out, there's room enough to care about everything.
Times like these cause me real pain. This summer has been an awful one, the ascent of Trump beyond all reason, the racism in my country that has heated up along with the weather to a fine, sharp point, the needless deaths of black men and police officers (all races) alike. I feel powerless to fix what's wrong; I'm not even sure where we'd start.
Hell, I can't even fix what's wrong in my own back yard. I'd banish the hawks if I could. There's a hornets' nest growing under one eave of our garage. Some local beekeepers will remove it, but only when the nest has grown large enough (volleyball-sized) to allow them to take useful numbers of hornets. Each day I check the size of the nest, and frown. It is still baseball-sized. My husband has been stung once: will my children be stung?
I sip my coffee, listen to the whine of the hawks, glance over at the empty birdfeeders, no nuthatches or cardinals in sight, and not for the first time I curse my stupid heart.