She is more sad than road kill.  Her chirps more mournful than the screech of tires.  Her energetic movements more wrenching than the glazed eyes that litter roads.  Her and roadkill, victims of progress, unrecognized sacrifices for no higher purpose.  Both there, neither understanding why.  Roadkill and her.

I spotted her in the Hilfiger department, perfectly perched, juxtaposed in front of an advertisement.  A clothes line, a crystal sky, a lush field.  Judging by her beautiful song and energetic movements, she probably thought spring had arrived.  It hadn't.  Outside of the false stale heat of the department store, it was still crisp, frigid winter.  Out there, the roadkill froze.  In here, she thought she found refuge.  Of course, with her birdbrain, she thought wrong.  In here, she found a song far sadder than any sung before.

She flew in from outside, attracted by the warmth of the mall.  She dipped over the glass windows, zipping through a small crack where a rafter met a pane.  The moment she entered, drawn in by the dull hum and sanctity of warmth, her fate was sealed.  She didn't know of the translucency of glass, or the probability of finding another crack.  She only knew warmth.

Below, the froth of humanity flowed back and forth, bubbled up elevators, rippled through aisles and aisles of clothing.  Purple shirts.  Red pants.  Corduroy, denim, plaid, pleated.  Spring jackets, winter coats.  Shirts with birds on them.  Pants made from road kill.  A million articles for a single purpose, warmth.

Having already conveniently solved that problem, she flitted around without a care on her small heart.  She sucked into the department store at the end of the mall, dancing around, pecking at the gum on the carpet.  Unfortunately, the food court sat at the other end of the mall.  She'll never find it, or the pet store, or giant fountain, or any other part of the mall a bird might enjoy.  She'll never find that crack, that ticket outside.  She'll never find her nest, or her mate, or a branch, or a cloud.

Because no matter what instincts God gave her, no matter how many times she had flown before, today was her last flight.  No amount of skill or instinct could guide her to that small chip in the window.  She's lost.  She's chirping now.  Eventually that will change.  Within a few weeks, just as the dirty snowdrifts in the parking lot are melted by spring, she will fall silent.  The pretzel crumbs and candy wrappers will no longer sustain her.  She will die of starvation.  By the time her chirps turn to screeches, real warmth, not false, will have brightened the outside.  By the time her curious pecks at the gum on the carpet become desperate, winter will have dripped into spring.  By the time she dies of starvation, lost in a world of Hilfiger and Kaufmanns, I will have alreayd forgotten the fate of a poor bird lost in a department store.

There are fates worse than roadkill.  To go quickly, ignorant, never knowing of the entrapment in a larger web.  That is something we can all hope for; a peaceful spot between the yellow striped lines where we are gone before the second car even passes.  But to be lost, truly lost - therein lies the life I fear.  Trapped in a world of commercial posters, neon signs, corporate fireworks.  Never actually recognizing the difference between the beauty of spring outside and the spring on the Hilfiger ads.  Becoming so entranced in the sights and sounds of a developing world that we lose the crack in the facade that lets us back outside.

That is more sad than roadkill.