On the path this morning, I saw a silver bird no bigger than my fist, too weak to fly. He ran along ahead of me in bursts. As I came closer, his legs moved in a flurry making up the distance between us. But still, he couldn’t lift his wings. I followed behind for 100 steps or so as he kept looking back, wondering what creature I might be and what I might do to him if I caught up. The winds blew the brush on the edges of the trail as he struggled to leap over the uneven grass greening with the spring. Just days before Easter, I could feel a Spirit of change in the air, and the world renewing itself. Finally, when I was almost on top of him, there was another flurry of energy — this time in his wings — and somehow up he went into the air about 20 feet and off the path into the tall weeds with tops like wheat stalks. I’m certain he thought himself safe — delivered from danger — though I planned to do him no harm. I imagined as I walked past that he would calm himself and rest there until he was able to take flight. Then off he would glide into April. Reborn like these fields. Full of new life. A bird of the air, cared for forever by the mysterious provisions of our Lord.