From the diary of Saint Kevin of Glendalough.

March 17, Saint Patrick's Day. Unbelievable event this morning: I take my usual walk out into the woods, find a clearing, kneel down, stretch out my arms in supplication to the Lord, and a blackbird lands in my left hand and lays a clutch of eggs. Moral dilemma for me: I detest blackbirds, but am constrained by my vow to love life in all creatures great and small. Have no choice but to remain still with arm outstretched. I write this with my right hand, as night falls.

March 18, Saint Cyril's Day. My arm is killing me. The blackbird spent all of today building a nest around the eggs, and now I am holding not only incipient birds but plant stems, grass, leaves, twigs, roots, and mud. There are four eggs. They're bluish-white, speckled and mottled, not unlovely. I can tell them apart by the slightly different pattern of speckles as well as by their arrangement in my hand, nicely reflecting the four holy directions. Believe me, I've had a lot of time to look at them. Am so thirsty I can barely spit, and at dusk today I was forced to answer the call of nature. Good thing I am on a slight rise, a kind of mossy hillock in this clearing.

March 19, Saint Joseph's Day. Rain. Got drenched. Always wondered what birds do to protect their eggs in rain. Answer: huddle over eggs and get drenched. Felt friendly toward the bird today. First time; have been feeling murderous. Forgive me, Lord.

March 20, Saint Wulfran's Day. Wulfran famed for virtue in spite of the seductions of the world. Wonder if he had to spend four days on his knees in the mud with a bird in his hand. Feeling murderous again today. Very nearly dropped bird, eggs, and all when seized by sneezing fit. Am starving. Am also wondering where the hell the rest of the monks are. Doesn't anybody miss me? When I get back to the abbey I am going to make the dust fly. "You're our leader, Kevin." "We wouldn't be here without you, Kevin," bah.

March 21, Saint Nicholas of Flue's Day. Nicholas was hermit, too, spent nineteen years without taking food or drink, lived only on the Eucharist. Tell me about it.

March 22, Saint Lea's Day. Spent her nights in constant prayer. Ditto. Bird and I spent hours staring at each other today. I love bird. Bright yellow eyes, iridescent blue-black sheen, delicate fingery feet. I really love bird. Considered reaching over suddenly and stuffing her whole in my mouth, crunching her little bones, and spitting out only her beak and toenails, but refrained after great struggle. Near thing, though.

March 23, Saint Turibius's Day. "Willingly exposed himself to the steaming climate of Peru," say the chronicles. Hmph. Bird eyeing me suspiciously today.

March 24, Saint Catherine of Sweden. Persuaded her husband to join her in a perpetual vow of chastity, forgoing their lawful marital rights for the love of God. No comment.

March 25, the Annunciation. Hard day. Exhausted, sick, starving, my robe is soiled, my hair is matted, the flies and mosquitoes are biting great chunks from me, my arms and legs are wooden, and I have this itch right in the middle of my back. I can't go on. I must go on. What did Mary say after the angel told her the news, though? "Let it be done to me as you say....

March 26, Saint Margaret. "Possessed of good looks, wit, and merriment," say the chronicles, "and crushed to death under great weight." Story of old Kevin of Glendalough. Snow flurry in the morning. Reached over and cupped right hand over eggs and bird like little roof. Hand looks like weathered leather.

March 27, Saint Rupert, missionary. Eggs stirred today. Flame of hope in me: they'll hatch! Tried desperately to remember what I learned in old Brother Brian's science class. Turdus merula, the Irish blackbird, incubation of eggs twelve to fifteen days. Good old Brother Brian. Sorry now that I used to mutter "what possible difference could knowing about Turdus merula ever make?"

March 28: Saint Guntramnus. They didn't hatch, the bastards. Spent the day staring at the eggs, trying to heat them with my eyes, no luck. Rained all day. Starting to wonder if Brother Brian was off a bit on incubation; my God, what if it's 112 to 115 days?

March 29, Saint Joseph of Arimethea. He had the guts to ask for Christ's body. I vaguely remember my body. Spent the day flying through the woods. I am a hawk now.

March 30, Saint John Climacus. I am an egg. I am the egg man. Once there was a Kevin and then he went to the woods and died and they found him years later his bones in the moss.

March 31, Saint Benjamin, martyr. Eggs hatched! Wet ugly birds struggled out of shell! At noon, I slowly let my hand down and lay the cup of their nest on the moss. Rose creakily to feet. Thought about kneeling to thank Lord for four new Turduses, decided to stand and pray with arms rigidly by sides. Did little jig to get blood flowing again, and so invented Irish step-dancing. Blessed the birds, including mother bird, who still eyes me warily. Stumbled home to abbey. Cannot wait to have chat with brother monks about such things as general respect for saints. Drooled thinking of first meal. Decided against eggs.

Brian Doyle is the editor of Portland magazine and, with his father, Jim Doyle, co-author of Two Voices (Liguori).