I mowed a bird last week. Yes, that is what I said. (The picture, from the scene of the crime, was taken a week or so earlier. I don't mow snow.)

It seems that I came home from church on Wednesday night a little later than planned. The sun had set but there was still some light. The grass in my front lawn was taller than it should be. So I pulled my riding lawn mower out of the garage. It is not in very good shape. I inherited it from my father. He purchased it in 1994 so it is rather old too. But its condition has steadily deteriorated since coming under my care. Guilty.

The headlights do not work. I have never changed the oil. The blade is dull. The front left tire consistently leaks. The muffler is held on by one bolt. And ... the bolts holding the motor down ... don't. Dad would be upset. Really upset. But he's not here and unless that "great cloud of witnesses" is bored enough to watch me cut grass I think I'm safe. Besides, it still works and I keep promising myself that I am going to fix it. Get it all spiffed up. Make dad proud. I'm going to do it too. As soon as I fix my motorcycles carburetor this Saturday. Yep, the lawn mower is most certainly next.

Anyway, back to my confession. I started the mower up, put my ipod headphones on, and pointed toward the front yard as best I could find it in the late evening light. I lowered the blade all of the way, put it in 4th gear (I had to hurry as it was now getting seriously dark.) I took off. The mowing was completed in record time. I put the contraption away. (It blew a bright orange flame through the muffler when I turned it off in the garage. You could still smell it the next morning!)

Speaking of the next morning, that's when I noticed it. The bird formerly called "Sparrow" was in my front yard. He was really in my front yard. He was near the road. He was near the house. He was under both trees. He was snuggled up next to the bushes. The Sparrow was everywhere. The Sparrow was nowhere. Mainly there were feathers. Was he alive when I ambushed him with the red monster? Was he pulling a worm from the damp evening grass and failed to hear me coming? Was he already dead and waiting for some squirrel to claim him as supper? Was he just flying low when fate caused us to intersect? I do not know. I will never know. Unless maybe God shows me His "Sparrow Log Book" when I get to heaven. He keeps track of these things, ya know. I don't think I'm in trouble ... but I could be. Oh geez, I could be.