I know how the dead bird speaks.

It speaks through me.



I've had more than a few things die in before my eyes, but few have died in my hands. This bird did: I had my thumb on its breast as it took its last breaths; I literally felt its final heart beat.

These are small moments that etch themselves into one's being. I am not the same.

It looks even better on my new website, if you haven't been yet.

wes.