A chalk-white bird fell off its orbit, crashed into the ground like a meteorite, cracked its neck and turned into rock in the desert. The sun sunk into a cloud of ash, dinosaurs vanished and my family rose to the desert sand, there by the white rock. Grandfather carved a church from the bird, father pierced windows through the skin and the son made air pipes for the spirit. I got a job as the cantor, sat down on a bony organ loft, my fingers freezing on the black keys and searching for a broken melody, pieces of an airplane fallen on the moor: The Big Bang, the immobile mover, the dinosaurs, the mechanics of mercy… at last spring came, the cathedral cupola burst open and it rained white keys, chalk-white feathers.