At the edge of a farmer's field four crows rise in lumbering flight against a relentless wind that pushes one of the birds directly down and into the path of my windshield. I watch through my rear-view mirror as its lifeless body twirls and comes to rest on the grass. Some faceless preacher on the radio talks about the hands of God threaded through all things. I turn it off and listen to only the wind.

Engineers will tell you that all things can be measured:
Indiana is a certain number of miles wide.
There are instruments you can use to ascertain the exact thickness of a gun barrel; the ounces even in a bullet.

Then there are some things that can never be measured nor should they:
Your life as viewed through the eyes of the people who love you.
The speed of the bullet as it carries you between worlds.
The weight of two broken wings on the shoulder of a highway…
Both of you now cupped in the wide, steady palms of God.