SUNDAY, MAY 3
While I sat in the choir as the chaplain led a small gathering of mourners through a memorial service for our friend Knox Scott, a bird flew into the chancel through an open door. It circled over the choir around and up and then toward what it took to be an open window above the altar. The window cleaners had done their work well. The glass was as clear as air. It was a hard meeting. The bird's neck was broken in an instant. The little fist-sized ball of feathers fell straight down and landed on the altar beneath and a little to the right of the stained glass altar cross with the figure of a dove. No twitching of little feet. No recovery after the final blow. A swift death. A more superstitious bunch of people would have taken it as an omen of good or bad. I wonder which.

The Truth abides still.
Be it ever so, he said.
The bird fell in death.