I hate birds. To be honest, I am afraid of birds, and I feel terribly uncomfortable around them. I am disgusted by every single one of their sickening features: the repulsive texture of the feathers, the ravenous looking eyes, and the gruesome mouth without any teeth. One of the most terrifying experiences of my life was when I was eight, and I had to walk through the hall of dead bird specimens at the London Museum of Natural History — never again. Though the hall of birds was scary enough, I faced another dreadful moment of my life: birds built a nest on my porch.

The birds put together various pieces of wood and soon formed a complete nest. Why did they decide to build their nest right there? On that specific spot, on top of the column, which is right in front of the door where I am forced to see those birds almost every single day. Fabulous.

Days went by, and I learned how to evade the birds, even though the mother bird’s piercing eyes still frightened me and often gave me chills. After a couple of weeks, the baby birds were born. I could hardly see anything other than their beaks and veins. I was fine with them unless they opened their mouths, exposing their pale and veiny upper palates to the world. Our relationship was on the path of improvement, and I almost thought I had conquered my fear of birds. I was clearly mistaken.

Saturday morning. The sunlight coming through the windows tickled and woke me up gently along with the cloudless blue skies. This perfect Alabama weather spurred me into a productive mood, instead of my usual sluggish and exhausted one. Soon I was set for a good morning’s jog, until I witnessed the tragedy.

The baby birds at the nest were loud and annoying as usual demanding nothing but food. But it was not they who caught my attention. On the bottom of the column where the nest was built, I saw a little creature squirming for life. I gagged. It was a baby bird without any feathers, its eyes yet to be opened, and its skin soft and tender looking. The baby bird, I assumed, fell while warring for more food among the uncivil flock of irritating creatures. It was dark gray with its little black beak poking out. Its eyes seemed like those of a huge teddy bear which are buried due to the abundance of fur, but in this case, the bird's plump skin. Its skin seemed so smooth and velvety like a thick gray pudding. The newly hatched bird vibrated along with every heartbeat and attempted to live by wiggling its little nails which reminded me of a wrinkled drinking straw or an earthworm.

I picked up a thin wooden stick and softly poked it a few times as a substitute for a knock, trying to figure out its state. As I brought the wood closer to the birds’ nails, the bird started to cling to it. A soft yet desperate effort to live for a few more seconds. The bird seemed as if it wanted to squeeze the life out of this piece of wood, a stretch to that one last hope. It was performing in its own circus, trying to balance itself on top of a tiny stand, knowing that the trick could fail at any moment. Slowly its mouth opened, as if it were about to make a sound, only to let out dry air in hopes of breathing in once more. I felt sorry for its struggles, but I refused to help it. I did not plan on touching the bird on the verge of its death, surrounded by odious white feces of its parents who left their droppings all around the column. Poking it was frightening enough.

While I stood there solely as an observer, the baby bird was in an intense war with itself, hoping to overcome its destined death. But it gave in to the destiny. Soon enough, its nails stopped wiggling, and I knew its life ended. The bird’s world came to a permanent pause as its last attempt to breathe was interrupted by the last heartbeat. The bird became a cold, dark blob simply lying peacefully after its battle. It let go of the wooden stick, not wanting to cling on to it anymore. The veins no longer moved. The eyes were still there, still closed, as if it had never lived. To clear my mind of the appalling image of the dead bird, I left for a jog and dismissed my thoughts.

Later that day, it rained as if the sky was lamenting over my lack of affection for the bird's death. I went outside and checked on the bird. It was still there, but it looked pathetic. The skin was stiff and dark, the veins nearly colorless, the beak slightly opened. Death sucked any sign of life out of this poor creature, and the bird remained merely a silent gray blob — to an extent that I actually considered a bird worthy of sympathy.