I saw Jesus napping in a hammock in my backyard. A transistor radio lay on his chest. A baseball game was on. Orioles and Yankees.

First inning.

I stepped softly past the hammock, slipped around the pond (frogs croaked), and into a field of flowers.

Butterflies fluttered.

I picked three fistfuls of bluebells and put them in a jar. I walked to my neighbor’s house. The shades were pulled.

(Her son was buried yesterday. No one came.)

I set the jar on the porch.

(A blackbird limped across the porch, gasping with each halting step. One wing was broken. It stood still, trembling, uncertain. I kneeled on the step, watching, a vigil to keep. The sun was slowly sinking down. The silent bird shuddered, fluffed its feathers, rose on its toes, lifted both wings, and flew away.)

I walked back to my yard.

The hammock was empty.

The radio was on.

Last inning.

The Orioles won.

* * *