Thump of a bird against the window, then silence. I assume it flew away and hours pass before I find the tiny feathered bundle on the deck. With workmen at the house, I do what normally I wouldn’t: pick it up with bare hands.

The talons are clenched in rigor mortis, eyes closed as if the end had not been swift and violent. Marveling at the translucence of its tail, the spotted pattern on its throat and pale gray breast, I lay it on the railing till I have a moment and can get a shovel. . .