Sometimes the view of the Sandias is filled with a bird flying right into the big glass windows of the house. Thump. They shake off the surprise of seemingly solid air and fly away. Lucky birds! Some are not so lucky. A few fall limp, spending the last moments of being a bird confused and in pain. It is a hard, yet a beautiful moment, looking into the eyes of a dying bird as they look into yours. A creature who has spent all it's days fluttering away from human beings, suddenly finding comfort cradled in ones hands. I wonder at what moment after the bird dies, does it realize it's spirit continues to fly? There is a place under the old Grandfather cotton wood tree where the little bodies are placed back into the earth. I have dug too many holes there.