massacre

At first sight, this looks like a little scattering of light green blossom, or maybe of young leaves.  But no.  These are feathers: white fluffy feathers, pale green feathers, and a few longer lime green ones.  I fear that something Bad must have happened to a baby parakeet.   There's no sign of a corpse, but this feathery litter on some doormats that happen to be hanging on our terrace rail suggests an attack - a hawk?  Spots, official name Lyra (according to her collar) - the neighborhood independently minded predatory Bengal cat?  Or what?

Of course, says the Pollyanna in me, it might have managed to struggle free and get away.  There's no blood.  For someone who was jumping in scared shock all the way through Puss in Boots this afternoon (my first ever 3D movie! amazing!), and who was feeling the terror at every slip and slide into dangerous space, this is an odd form of optimistic reasoning.  Because in a movie that's likely to have a substantial audience of children, of course Puss is going to be all right - however tight a fix he seems to be in - but one's body responds otherwise - as when one's favorite detectives get into scarily entrapped or violent situations - one knows they'll get out of it (or one trusts that they will - those authors who break the silent pact with their reader in this respect truly know how to unsettle).  But do I really think that this small scared parakeet is all right now, just gazing with relief at her missing tail feathers?  Ah, it would be so good to believe in the power of magical thinking, here.