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As I lay there with clods of earth thumping all around me, I thought of my son, and of a sparrow. Thinking of the bird was unavoidable. The poor thing was on its side staring at me from only a few inches away, clearly as confused as I was by the strange turn of events. Sparrows often bathe themselves in dirt, which was a handy skill for this particular male to have. He opened his little black beak in a soundless chirp, fluttered free of the debris, and was off clean as a whistle.