When I try to imagine that dead tiger shark in suspended animation, glorified in a steel box of formaldehyde, I can’t help but see it in motion. I see the walls of its glass cage expand into a murky kelp forest that masks its constant forward motion, just as Terry Tempest Williams mentions in her essay “A Shark in the Mind of One Contemplating Wilderness.” Though Williams addresses a broad range of issues in her work, this essay can be summarized quite easily: in order for us as humans to understand and appreciate something, we have to kill it—or pause it—to do so. “Even in death, I see this shark in motion.” (Williams 570) Only then we can fully value how it works, how it looks. We can see its aesthetic and inner workings at close range. Williams
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It’s calypte anna. It’s a hummingbird. I want to pick the thing up, cradle it in my hands, but I wouldn't dare. I wouldn’t dare touch a dead bird. That’s gross.
I remember my days as a child, where the world was much taller and brighter. I remember the sunshine beating on the wings of an iridescent dead thing in my hands.
“That’s cool.” I smile. I leave the room and my emotions spark at a memory. I’m still a very sensitive person, in case you’re wondering.
Later, I sit down at that desk too look again at the little bird. Her wings are outstretched, posed by my Grammie; her miniscule legs are curled into her body. I remember my thoughts of the same spectacle as a child. This is God’s design. So efficient and small and fast.
Who else looks at dead hummingbird’s with such wonder? Me and my Grammie, I guess. Though I wasn’t the one to kill those hummingbirds, whether it be an Act of God or some other happening, I’m still able to better see them. When I watch a hummingbird dive in the air like a jet plane, a flash of tropical lightning, I can see what their slick wings look like when not in motion and feel how ridiculously tiny they are. I understand
It’s calypte anna. It’s a hummingbird. I want to pick the thing up, cradle it in my hands, but I wouldn't dare. I wouldn’t dare touch a dead bird. That’s gross.
I remember my days as a child, where the world was much taller and brighter. I remember the sunshine beating on the wings of an iridescent dead thing in my hands.
“That’s cool.” I smile. I leave the room and my emotions spark at a memory. I’m still a very sensitive person, in case you’re wondering.
Later, I sit down at that desk too look again at the little bird. Her wings are outstretched, posed by my Grammie; her miniscule legs are curled into her body. I remember my thoughts of the same spectacle as a child. This is God’s design. So efficient and small and fast.
Who else looks at dead hummingbird’s with such wonder? Me and my Grammie, I guess. Though I wasn’t the one to kill those hummingbirds, whether it be an Act of God or some other happening, I’m still able to better see them. When I watch a hummingbird dive in the air like a jet plane, a flash of tropical lightning, I can see what their slick wings look like when not in motion and feel how ridiculously tiny they are. I understand