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The fledgling house sparrow staggers erratically
over the back lawn in the morning rain. It's in trauma, it seems
to have lost the use of its legs and moves along by dragging itself
with its wings. There's no external sign of injury.
At
least we can put it somewhere dark and dry - in a shoe box on some
paper towels.
It soon dies and I make this drawing, intending to do a more detailed
study of its plumage but then I see one of those small, squat, flat,
slow-moving flies walking away from the body across my desk and
I decide that I should dispose of the unfortunate bird by the hedge
behind the compost bins. 
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