My mind is on birds, one of your other favorite poetic subjects. I remember those few months when you could not walk. You were always a bird, how could you not walk? How could you not fly? You had to walk. How do you, in a figurative sense, cage a bird (to borrow the familiar title)? Every bit of the Size 0 to 2 of you was an ambulatory type C personality with the leg of a type A person. How do you ambush a spritely spirit? Memories: for instance you would not allow pork in the house - O how you loved the stories of the Old. A few times I suspected that you would gladly trade places with any of those women that swaddled the Baby in the manger in Bethlehem. You were the curious crossbreed between Emily Judson and the fictitious Forester. You were the last of prairie breed - a log house Christian in temperament and taste. Never mind what people say, you were not a “Saint” in the ecclesiastical sense of the word – I can not imagine another description that would make you cringe more. But you were as close to one, in a biblical sense, as any human being I know. You had to fly. So you did. Painfully so, but you did.