We live in the midst of death, and many life-forms die because we live. Think of all we consume, and of the lives we interrupt inadvertently — on country roads, with the cleaning rag, underfoot.

Yesterday I heard a terrific thud and, heart pounding, looked out into the vege garden. Two thrushes among the spinach: twinned in flight, together they’d struck glass. Stunned, beak to beak, first the larger one died, then the smaller.

When we built our deck, I was the one who insisted on glass, for the view. Seen from the garden yesterday, in the morning light it mirrored a vista of blue and gold, distant trees, a clear, enticing sky.

Mea culpa.

The warm bodies were heavy in my hands.

The cooled bodies on a rhubarb leaf were light — mere bone and feathers.

You and I go on living — at least for now.