A bird lies dead on the pavement. It seems all wings, a hint of head. Wings that are spread wide but with no flight in them; they rest on asphalt not on air. Those lightweight honeycomb bones to no advantage now on the ground. Perhaps the wind, a sharp breeze, may lift the little body a last time.
Earlier I held a blue titmouse in my hand; I opened the window, slid my arm out and opened my hand. It stood there a little time, then flew to the big apple tree.