I found the bird in Grandgirl’s bedroom closet. The wire feet, the black-button eyes, but especially the flaked pages of old hymnbook—my word. Even the words. The hang-on-the-cross and washed-in-the-blood zeal.

This is the Noemi grandgirl—she’s who chopped that wad of brittle, yellowed music into head and breast and wings and tail feathers. The hymnal came, I think, from the home of some very old relatives who love the Lord. She’d walked off with it. They’d said she could. They’re our relatives, too, and when I sent them a photo of the bird—of what had happened to their hymns—they weren’t so pleased. A thing I loved—and love—so much!

The truth is, those blood songs needed chopped up.