Happy new year, my friends.

As you can see above, I have decided to join Blog 365, a network of current and would-be bloggers dedicating themselves to a year of daily blog posts. I did this because, frankly, I've been doing a shit job as a blogger lately and I want to write every day. Besides, I know you need something to read.

I went to a new year's party last night - and when I left my apartment I noticed a bird perched on the stone wall of my front stoop. I stopped and stared at it - and it was motionless. Not even a twitch of the wing. I was with my roommate, and as I was starting to freak (I highly dislike birds) he told me that this he had seen this same bird, in this same position, at around 5:00pm. It was currently 7:20.

'OMG! What if it's DEAD?!' (Okay I didn't say 'OMG.' I said 'Oh my god.' No, really.)
'It probably is.'
'AAAAHHHH!!!!'
'It's just a dead bird. It's not like a ghost bird coming to haunt you.'
'HOW DO YOU KNOW?!'
'Do you want me to kick it?'
'NO!!!'

Off I went to my party. (Which was fun, by the way. Yay!) Then, when I arrived home about five hours later, I was dreading the moment my stoop would come into view, for the possibility that I might find that same bird sitting there - which would pretty much prove my theory that it was dead.

...Whew!! No bird. Upon closer inspection though, you know what I did find?

Bird shit.

That's right, people. When I was staring at that motionless bird, worrying about the whereabouts and disposition of its soul, it was not dying or dead. It was taking a shit.

I now leave you with a poem I wrote over the summer, that I had completely forgotten about until I ran into my apartment, unable to think about anything else but dead birds.

-----

three dead birds
two mangled, feathers
matted to the gravel
plum-colored stain
bones, feet awkwardly awry
instant, gruesome, yet
insignificant death
the third, one whole
lungs emptied
serene, like sleep
eerily present - moreso than while
breathing life

three blows to the soul
fate is not what you made it out to be
proaction, not reaction
before you become present
you need to fade
let your small deaths define you
by and by your serenity
and infamy
will arrive.