Dead Birds Don't Fly

Birds and I have a long and complex history. A swan attacked me when I was young. A pelican shat on me in my teens (that's a lot of shit, y'all). A pigeon with a hypodermic needle through its neck used to walk me from work to the bus stop in Seattle. I used to feed herons hot dogs and American cheese from a dock in Florida. When one of my best friend's died in Iraq, a crow moved onto my back stoop and I talked to it while smoking.

 

More than a dozen (I quit counting) birds have pooped on me over the years. This means that I am either really lucky or that winged things see me as a target. Either way, at some point along the way, I started photographing the dead birds I encountered. Please enjoy this morbid beauty obsession:

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