Dear Wigleaf

The autumn birds have begun to gather again. They're in the backyard each morning beneath the poplar. Its leaves are turning. Our daughter, Frances, watches from the kitchen window as the birds wade the grass. Her fingerprints all across the glass panes. She talks about that feather she found by the river once. She kept it tight in her fist as she walked out into the water. She called it a treasure. She asked to bury it in the silt mud bank, wanted it to stay there for a long minute.

Little minutes and long minutes.

This how she's started to talk about time.

I watch her as she watches the birds. There is frost where the poplar casts its shadow across the grass. Frances opens the backdoor and the birds flush. She steps outside and cries. I touch her shoulder and tell her there's seed in the shed. We can scatter it. I tell her the birds will return.

She shouts.

"Don't look at me."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"Don't look at me!"

This is how she's started to talk about sadness.

I look at the color in the poplar. It ripples against a cold wind. And I look at the frost on the shade grass. Her crying only lasts a little minute. I ask if she remembers the feather by the river. She walks barefoot over the yellowed grass. It's cold and I bring out her shoes. She lets me look at her. She asks where the birds go.