Poor Thing

At a quarter to eight this morning, I could be found in a field about 20 miles from home, squinting in the low sunlight, trying to decipher the signature on an old, framed, sketch. I was at a car-boot sale and the christian name on the piece in question appeared to be Paul or Porl or Pooh..., while the surname could've been Thys or This or even Thirsty! Regardless of the artist, I was completely taken by the delightful sketch of a Blue Tit in flight.

'I don't know if that's a comment on the bird or the drawing', came a voice over my shoulder. It was the stallholder. I looked at him, puzzled. He looked back at me and, noting my confused expression, gestured at the squiggle I'd been trying to make out. I looked back at the sketch. Of course...how stupid I'd been. The Blue Tit wasn't in flight, it was dead. The unknown artist presumably recorded the bird where it fell, as the work appears to be on the back of a sheet of headed or watermarked notepaper. After completion, at the bottom right hand corner, instead of signing the lovely little piece of art, he or she was then moved to leave a personal comment. Poor thing.