A woman tells me the story of a small wild bird, beautiful on her window sill, dead three days. How her daughter came suddenly running, "It's moving, Mommy, he's alive." And when she went, it was. The emerald wing-feathers stirred, the throat seemed to beat again with pulse. Closer then, she saw how the true life lifted under the wings. Turned her face so her daughter would not see, though she would see.