Life is fragile.
Just a few minutes ago I was standing in the living room and noticed a bird had flown in the staircase. The window in the staircase is tilted open from the top, that’s where she must’ve come in. Just enough of a gap for a bird of her size to fly in. She was in distress and flew against the window, and as I went to open the window so the bird could fly out, it banged its head twice more against the window and fell on the stairs. One of its arms twitching, I assumed it had broken its arm. A minute later, though, the twitching has stopped. It was dead. “The body’s still warm,” my mother said as she picked the bird up. We buried her in the yard next to some flowers.