Singing Songs to Birds

Kneeling under the old, lone oak. Rain pounding mere feet away. I’m dry, except for all the blood.

I have had great times playing here. It is our fort, my brother’s and mine; it is our everything. The oak is tall and crooked. It is an old man standing proud against time. I love the way the light bounces from its leaves, making the world crisp and green. They let me stroke my dying brother’s face without getting soaked to the bone.

I grew up here, scraping in the dirt and rocks, singing songs to the birds. I listen to them warble and I convince myself they are answering, telling me their secrets. My brother did not like the birds. He took great joy from yelling and throwing things at them. But I don’t think he was trying to hurt them, even though they tell me otherwise. Birds cannot be trusted. I know that now.

The old oak’s thick branches go high. They offer perfect hand-holds and lookout points, and they’re strong with many years of growth left. The birds nest in the tall tall top. They sing and sing, drawing your ear and you can’t help but join them. They sing and sing and you climb and climb and my brother should not have thrown rocks at the birds while so high up. They screamed and screamed and screamed. I pushed him.

He fell hard. But for what it’s worth, I’ve seen far worse on television.

Now, I’m wet with sweat and covered with grave dirt. My brother still breathes and he’s yelling at the birds; deserved or not they’ll not need suffer it long. The rain pounds but he’ll stay dry in his hole under the bows. Always and forever we’ll have fun at the old, lone oak.

I think I hear our mother calling us for dinner.