leave it lay where Jesus flang it: a descant to poor, rocky dirt
It was such an awful storm Friday night, the robins lost their nest. The fledgling birds were found among the leaves and branches on the ground. The boy buried them, and marked the grave with a cross made of small stones. I had done something similar to the small bird I had to pick off the grill of my car. 'The sin of the world,' I think to myself '--they bear the sin of the world.' I had also hit a juvenile prairie dog, lost and confused on the road. They are dead because of my need to unnaturally travel faster than they can fly. In a car fueled and made of pollutants that are killing us all. In a car fueled by the causes of the stuff of war. The sin of the world.
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