BIRDS AT NIGHT
Birds looked down from building tops all through the night. They watched humans scurrying about, not as plentiful or as agile as ants but leaving more to eat. Humans were a great source of food, thought they weren’t edible themselves.
Until they were dead; then it was different. You could tell when one was about to die; it looked like a baby bird in its nest, straining up, mouth drawn open, waiting for mama to drop a worm. But it it was straining for air, not a worm. The birds could hear the faintest last exhale, then it was time.
They’re tearing down my old house, the house I grew up in. I had to see it one last time. Everything looks so much smaller. Of course, my room was made smaller when they built that stud wall to divide it in two; my little sister was going to need a room. Mine was ugly, but it had the window, hers had the pretty wallpaper that I coveted. She didn’t care about the wallpaper, she wanted to see, to be, outside. When she died they kept everything the same, me in the ugly room, hers a shrine to someone else.
The worn cowboy hat
It is not the Western style
Straw, like Arkansas