Today I held a whippoorwill in my hand. On the wing, attracted by the sun’s rays he flew into my window pane. I don’t know how to save a dying bird. I soothed his sticky feathers as his glazed eyes fixed on a different galaxy, held him in my palm until his breast bone ceased to rise and fall. I buried him in the settled shade of an ancient Ash felled by winter’s gusts. Above his resting place the sky was as soft as my words. Now I put it into the world as though it is my responsibility for every living creature is significant and as beautiful as the shimmering rain from a golden cloud.
