One rainy Texas summer
the repetition of rain
falling like leaves –
like flies against my bedroom window –
forced tiny silver birds to drop
from the oak trees around our home.
They dropped like aluminum leaves,
their feathers slick and silver
and stiff from the sudden freezing rain.
Mother stood on the porch,
a dishtowel over one shoulder, and said
It’s usually stillness to watch out for;
I’ve never seen rain do this.
I bent to examine the birds’ small, crisp bodies,
wondering why they hadn’t flown away
before the weather turned sour,
wondering what being had let this quickening
take my summer birds.
Even now, I remember the small birds’
surprised gazes, their shiny eyes glazed
and congealed from the sticky heat-freeze.
Mother sprang from the porch
and pulled me up by both hands
and into the house
warning me
Don’t touch
those filth ridden things.
I watched from the screen door
while she quickly shoveled the smooth shells
into a pile and them scooped them into a sack
to burn when they were dry.
Their vespers before the rain
had been a little sugar
and a little sorrow;
their unforgettable echoes
flowed down through
the once-dry cracks in the earth
and were sealed
in the welcoming dirt.
-Kim Saunders
