The Lady Bird wintering in the room where I sleep fell onto his back early last night and he proceeded to set up a buzzing noise. I imagined him weak from hunger and thirst, and I concluded that given my own condition, warm and full up under blankets, the least I could do was allow him his last moments of grief without earning for myself the title 'Angel of Death' in the last hours of what had been a most peaceful day.
I knew he was somewhere under or beside, one or other of the sometimes useful objects that have residence upon the table near my bed. I knew too, that if I could find him, he might climb quickly onto my thumb, where he might rearrange his wings, and then I could set him somewhere, perhaps colder, so he might go back to sleep. For a few minutes at least, I was brave enough to share his pain, think about Easter.