Bird of the year award celebrity in fatal high speed crash
IT seemed sadly apt. By chance the last chorus of Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas — ‘‘With drooping wings ye Cupids come/And scatter roses on her tomb ...’’ — was playing softly in the background as the Doc officer on duty answered the phone.
A pair of kereru had flown past (courting?) at high speed, only a few feet above the ground, as Civis and spouse, shaded by an umbrella on a warm Labour Day afternoon, had almost finished their mugs of tea. Then a loud bang; then silence.
One bird, dead, but still twitching for a few seconds after Civis found it, was lying at the foot of the fencepost which it must have hit, the only signs of injury some blood at the edge of its beak, a few small, white, downy feathers on the ground, and what seemed an unnaturally floppy neck an unpleasant reminder of once having had to put a damaged sparrow out of its misery after it had been hit by the car.
It seemed likely that the kereru had broken its neck — grace and power suddenly stilled.
One sees kereru flying, and sitting in trees or on powerlines, and thinks ‘‘those are big birds’’, but up close, held in one’s hands, they seem even bigger. And dramatically coloured: pink claws, folded as if at prayer; feathers iridescent bluegreen over the top of the head and the shoulders (is that the right word?) of the wings, shading into brown tail feathers and wing pinions; a breast bib of stark white.
And solidly built — it’s easy to see why they were a popular food source.
What should one do with a dead kereru?
Googling ‘‘dead kereru’’ led to the Doc website’s ‘‘Sick, injured and dead wildlife’’ page, which instructed finders to ring the Doc emergency hotline.
It was encouraging to find that, even on a public holiday, a Doc officer was on call in Dunedin.
After ascertaining that the bird had died from trauma, not disease, she checked that it could be suitably disposed of on the property, and advised doing that.
No roses were available, to be scattered on its tomb, but in October lots of rhododendrons are blooming.
So the scented R. maddenii
‘‘Virginalis’’, and one of the ‘‘Scarlet King’’ hybrids bred at Ilam by Edgar Stead, were substituted when the body was committed to nature’s recycling: earth to earth, dust to dust (but no ashes — ash isn’t good for the rhododendrons).
Requiescat in pace.
No wonder that the small boy pictured in Monday’s ODT, hearing the old 25pounder artillery pieces fire their 10 blank rounds in the Octagon, from 10am on Sunday, had his hands over his ears — Civis, inside St Paul’s Cathedral, was startled, too.
The report in the ODT listed the activities of the Royal New Zealand Artillery Association that weekend — a dinner, a general meeting, tourist activities, and acknowledgement of the 155th anniversary of Dunedin’s BBattery, New Zealand Field Artillery.
But one was missed.
There was no mention of the church service for the association in the Cathedral — attended by the association, with readings by its members — which immediately followed the artillery blasts in the Octagon.
Regular church attendance is much lower than 155 years ago, but the association thought a church service important enough to be part of its official programme.
Mainline churches may have shed default members and, like society, they’re imperfect, but they’re still active: worshipping, praying, helping the needy, trying to address their own and society’s faults, working for justice, strengthening community, and open to all — soldiers, pacifists, rich, poor, saints (a few), sinners, believers, doubters.
The Cathedral, from its central position above the Octagon, offers hospitality both to civic and other special occasions, and to protesters (such as the ‘‘Occupy’’ movement) in the Octagon, as part of its mission to the city.
Churches are still part of society. Don’t write them out of the record.