of my grandmothers back yard.
I watch birds flit
in and out
in and out
of the birdhouse I made for her.
They aren't cardinals like those on the calendar in her kitchen,
but I hope she likes them just the same.
"There they are,"
My mom points toward the passenger window.
We stop screaming at each other
and our sticky mouths gape open.
The fields are stirring with cranes.
One shoots up and uses her gigantic wings to
float.
Someone is hammering in the back yard.
I am looking for the source.
No one is out here.
I look in the lilac bushes and around the pool.
Then I catch its bright red head high on the pole.
Dad says it's a woodpecker.
"Like Woody?"
He laughs.
We begged mom to take us to the "big hill."
On top are the crazy birds.
They are emus, not ostriches.
They kind of scare me,
but they are so funny when they run.
Grandma Donna watches the birds too,
but not out a window.
We sit together and stare at the computer screen
as if we are sitting diligently on the nests
that house those baby eagles
or hummingbirds.
We giggle at the babies' open mouths.
A wren has laid a nest in mom's flowers.
She waters around them
and worries about the wind that rocks the hanging basket.
There are three eggs.
I see her eyes wonder back to those
itty bitty eggs.
Even after we go inside.
My parents keep a bird feeder in the back now.
Every time I go home, I watch the hordes
or multi-colored birds that have landed there.
They flit back and forth,
back and forth.
And I am at home in my world of birds.
