I asked the owl why does she screech at this particular time. The moment isn’t special, just special to her. It’s her moment. She sharpens her best knife and it glints in the moonlight.
I ask the mynahs why they all gather in this tree at dusk and tell their stories of the day. It’s not special, just special to them. It’s their tree. They pick out their most colorful marbles and knock them all against each other.
The plover’s handkerchief is embroidered with heather and frost.
The owl’s knife handle is carved in the shape of silence.
The mynah’s marbles are agates cut out of an ancient cathedral, where thick cloth covers the hard cold stone pews.
The sunlight comes into the stained glass windows there from the south, the colors of Easter eggs.
The basket full of spring blossoms is loose, they fall through the holes in the weave and spill over, like a crowded bird bath.
The flowers have dew or misty rain on their fresh petals, their fragrance permeates under the feathers.
The plover says, I wipe away your tears and dry them in the bright sun.
The owl says, I cut away your fears and hide them in the night sky.
The mynahs say, we play because we can.
Three coins twirl and sparkle down, and fall in three unbroken lines of heaven.
They tell the fortune of long distance travelers and give guidance for decisions yet unmade.
Several unspoken things remain behind, and rest their heads on downy pillows.
The evening is still, a bass beat drifts in from the distance with muffled sounds of celebration: a birthday, a wedding, a funeral.
The plover says it is so far away.
The owl says they should be quiet now.
The mynahs want to go.
Colorful socks were once given by the sister far away.
Perhaps drawing a warm bath would relieve the cold toes.
Or a cup of tea with herbs her daughter wildcrafted.
Yet the socks are folded in the drawer, the tub is empty, and the herbs still grow.
The plover says it’s time to go.
The owl says it’s here to stay.
The mynahs just laugh and tell their stories of the day.