Before the day is over, workmen next door will pour cement. What they don't see on dark soil wet from the weekend's storm—a starling. Statue shoulders, feather-shine swept down as microscope eyes search for earthworms.

Little is left of the sun, snipped by approaching rain clouds. No bartering between sun and clouds or between workmen and bird. Her shiny black outfit embedded with jewels an opera-goer would wear, humming Così fan tutte.

I pull up the blinds to see how work is progressing, hear a piercing song. New addition to their house over a carcass. Can we call it a crime to kill an invasive species or is it an errand of mercy?

Years ago, I brushed on green eyeshadow, pulled a peacoat over sloping shoulders, arriving for secretarial duty at the Berkeley Lab.

Witnessed my boss in the nuclear department thrust gloved hands into portals of a secure case as he handled a reactive substance. I felt pin pricks on my head as if I was the experiment. As if he'd pushed a starling in my mouth.

What about my housemate with his No Nukes poster and what did I sign up for, how far curiosity could lead in the name of science, acceleration of uranium and other particles.

That day I went into the ladies room, peeled off tan stockings, raised my hand to the powdered soap dispenser, tried to rub off eyeshadow, eyes stinging, handed in my badge at building 90. Shuttled downtown.

Today, the workmen next door have finished. Did the starling witness her own burial in time to say prayers? No evidence would convict the bird killers. They lean on one leg, laugh and smoke, pack up their tools, then drive away.