Two Dead Birds Strange to find these familiar forms on such foreign soil, Shadows, patters, hollow vestiges of life the rotting spoils of Death's triumphant march. I lay my M-16 to my side (perhaps not wise) but the sight stopped my, and my thoughts flew back to other birds. I had left many such in youthful summer days when excited by the hunt I would raise the barrel of my BB gun, level it, then gaze through the peeop sight at my waiting prey. A beautiful sight, the bird, against daisy yellow and crisp blue sky, eyes catching the sun reflecting darkly within as much life as spring. teh small breast faintly moving with each breath while a vagrant breeze caressed feather grey, pulling from beneath a white puff of down, and it's head moved slightly, cocked, turned my way, and the beak faintly opened I think. Then the trigger snapped, the BB fled, and teh bird dropped Dead. And I, the hunter sprang fiercely from the sunflowers, claimed my trophy checked, the bloodstained body to see if my aim was true, then pulled out a feather or two for my hat. Many happy summers of slaughter passed till time made me wise. It came one day when I found a lone sparrow slightly breathing, barely living, so I cupped it near gently, (a most compassionate touch) still fear surged through its body wild eyes yearned for flight then it quivered and died. I watched life as it fled from its eyes saw them soften, then glaze, with opaque death, I made a vow then - I vowed by my hands no more birds would die. Yet here these two lie uprotted from life by some senseless fate most convincingly dead. But enough. I grabbed my M-16 where it lay over my shoulder stung it tightly, arose, and gazed accrossed the green streaming jungle and early morning haze, Here was another day. Tom Davenport Photo by Geof. N. Nesdssis Love Is Unique Sydna Keating Pop pop pop pop, pop, pop, pop. Sporadically at first, then with a general eruption of sound, the popcorn kernels burst and unfurled into completeness of being. Fascinating process, Kate thought. It's almost like watching one of those time - lapse sequences the chicken in the egg, the baby in the womb. The transformation gradually abated. Intermittent pops testified that there were a few late-bloomers, then nothing. Removing the pan from the heat, Kate idly wondered how many "old maids" remained at the bottom unable to fulfill their destinies. Poor dears, she laughed to herself as she emptied the final batch into the partially filled dishpan and generously doused the contents with melted butter. "Popcorn's ready. Julie, will you come help me bring it in?" No response. "Julie, did you hear me?" Still no answer from the adjoining family room. "Okay said the Little Red Hen, I'll do it myself." The words were no sooner out than Kate knew that it was the wrong thing to say. In the first place, assuming a do-it-yourself attitude was a direct contradiction to her original request for help. Consistency ... That's the order of the day issued by innumerable child psychologists, who keep American mothers up-to-date and often up-tight with their suggestions for every situation (which unfortunately come to mind after the "wrong" reaction has spontaneously occurred). And secondly, why did she interject the allusion to the Little Red Hen? Who wants to identify with a clucking, scratching, fussing, grubbing hen? If an award were given for being an over-solicitous mother (and that was another "helpful hint" give your children room to expand), a hen would definitely make a bid for the honors the old biddy! "Julie, did you hear your mother?" Ed's voice broke in on her private remonstrance. "Would you please answer her?" "Why do I always have to help?" came the whining response. "Can't Joni ever help?" "Joni wasn't asked to help," offered Ed in explanation. "Yah, she never helps. You and Mama always pick on me. I have to do everything," she said, distorting her mouth as she stressed the words. "Never, always, everything those are pretty absolute terms. You're sure about that now? Joni never helps? You always do everything?" Ed mocked her querulous tone. "I don't know what absolute means," she said defensively. "Oh, stop arguing and go help your mother," Ed retorted in exasperation. "See, you won't even let me talk." "That's right," her father angrily agreed, "and if you don't get into that kitchen and do what you've been asked, you won't be able to walk." "You never get mad at Joni," Julie accused. "You and Mama just like her better." "Julie," Ed's voice indicated the end of his patience and the conversation. Shuffling as though she had been smacked on the behind, Julie came into the kitchen. Cheeks flushed with indignation, lips puckered, she was petulance personified. "Will you please get the snack bowls, honey?" Kate asked, deciding to ignore the exchange between father and daughter. "It isn't fair, Mama," Julie blurted. "Joni's big enough to help." "I know that, Julie, and I'm not intentionally picking on you. I really don't understand what you're so upset about. I suppose I simply called you out of habit. What do you think would be fair? Should I draw lots to see who should help me?" Kate spoke precisely, trying to sound reasonable. "You like Joni better. I I can tell." There was a quaver in her voice. "Don't be silly, Julie. You know that isn't true." "I do not," Julie persisted, but her tone was no longer defiant. It was imploring, almost pathetic. Her limpid, blue eyes were misty, clouded by tears and uncertainty. It is very disquieting to have a child question the equality of a parent's love, especially if the parent minutely feels that there is some justification in the complaint. Kate Fargo was now confronted with the problem of examining her feelings and if necessary defending them. Julie's charge that "you like Joni better" was perhaps nothing more than angry words flung out to shock her. Or was it a desperate plea for reassurance, an unconscious response to an acute need? Instinctively Kate put her arms around her daughter and held her closely. Burrowing her face in the soft contours of her mother's body, Julie relaxed. Yes, thought Kate, there is much to be derived from comfort contact. "Hey, you two, where's the popcorn?" Ed's booming baritone shattered the silence, but not the significance of the moment. "It's on the way," Kate replied and giving Julie a quick kiss on the top of her tawny head said to her, "Take the popcorn in; I'll get the Cokes." Kate walked over to the frige, opened it and removed four Cokes and a tray of ice. Setting the drinks on the counter, she took the tray to the sink and began prying the lever to release the cubes. Whoever had last filled the tray had obviously disregarded the fine print ... fill to this line. The lever wouldn't budge. The ice was frozen over the top of the individual compartments into one solid mass. Darn!