We had a death in August.

The hummingbird, who hit a window, now lies beneath a rock in my only flowerbed, along with the ripe red raspberry Grandboy plucked from our patch in her honor, now, surely, eaten by ants. Scooped up from the ground, she lay tummy side up in his hands, her twig legs paddling frantically, but within minutes she succumbed.

He did the inscribing.

Two days later, as I sat reading on the porch, a wee brown wren flew into the edge of a different window, one cranked open. This time, the collision wasn’t fatal. But the wren, changing course, catapulted nearly into my face. I narrowly escaped my eye getting gouged. Moments later, not blinded, I was able to catch sight of another Ruby. She was buzzing above the wash line, maybe looking for her sister.

Danger always lurks. We have every reason to savor our hours—you and I and every small singing, whirring, fruiting thing.