"That still-twitching bird was so deceived by a window, so we eulogized fondly; we dug deep and threw it's elegant plumage and frantic black eyes in a hole, and we rushed out to kill something new so we could bury that, too."
With those lyrics, the Weakerthans describe with uncanny accuracy how, when I was maybe six or seven, my brother, cousins and I found a dead crow and had a funeral. We made it a sort of play-pretend game. Looking back, that seems a rather morbid game for children to play--all false sadness and how we even named the corpse.
We called him Blackberry.
I wish I had been genuinely sad.
I tried to dig him up a year later, when I was eight or nine, but I couldn't find him.
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