The Art of Dying
Yesterday: He held the finch in his hands in his lap. It had been sitting on a rock outside the hole he had dug that morning to plant a new cat’s whisker. He had stepped away and when he returned she was there. And she was dying. He sat with her and eventually picked her up. If she was going to recover he gave her his energy. If not he gave her his love. She rested in his hands. He moved her to his heart. Her warmth and weight and lightness were all that was left. She no