"Dead robins are on the ground across the city. Over the red fronts of some of them are these gray markings. Would that be a deadly fungus? There are so many birds, but how often do you see a dead one? How is that birds make a secret of death, when they so readily attest to just how much a living thing may be alive? It seems there should be an observable, extreme contrast. Where are these dead birds normally in their grand, grave numbers? Does a bird know death is coming and finds a spot to leave this world so that no one will ever see that bird or its body again, save perhaps another bird, who would know about these things and where to look? But why would it be looking, when there is a world in which it could be living?"
* from "Hope You're Listening"/Become Your Own Superhero: Intrepid Exceptions to Modern Fiction