I pull you from the claws of a cat. So tenderly I lift you from the ground, only a baby, you fell from your nest. Your mother is weeping. You were hit by a car, your body discarded by the force of the racing wind against the glass. I listen carefully, holding my ear against your breast. Often, I hear the racing of your heart slow. Sometimes it was already gone. In the agony of death, you let out a final cry, tensing all your muscles at once, and your fragile mortality trembles. I whisper gently, hoping to be of some comfort, but what could I do for you besides shed a tear? I’ll take you to the forest atop that grassy hill. Your graves are marked in my memory and I know where to dig, so I lay your limp form in the grass nearby as the first strike of my spade invades the soft dirt. Here your bones may rest. My fingers become dirtied as I smooth the earth back over you and she graciously accepts you home again. The wind has picked up as I leave the wood. I hear the chatter of a sparrow above. What do you teach, if not how to love?