On the Eve of the Death of the Patron Saint of Those Whose Lives are Lost to Something Science Can’t Explain
Never mind the robin’s red breast, legs twitching upright in the road, the sparrow on the curb, his head twisted backwards, or all the blackbirds falling from the sky at once. The crows have taken the last bit of bread to the puddle: let them call to warn the others. We’ll open the windows so the remaining birds can gather at the foot of her bed. Let her rest here until they come.