His twisted body a weird form of beautiful and gruesome. We are silent. He has dropped from the sky and now lays at our feet, dead. For a moment we try to remember the meaning behind what he was doing, the importance. But it is difficult, for the wings, what remain of them, are so wonderful. Soft, strong, brilliant. They quietly invite you to reach out and stroke them. Under the tips of your fingers they are feathery, smooth, gently yielding. We try to remember the meaning, but in the beauty of the wings all is forgotten.