Rachel Riffel
In spring,
when the snow begins to melt
and everything is puddle-luscious,
we walk the perimeter of my in-law’s property
to clean out the bird houses,
making room for the incoming migrants.
My son’s little fingers grab my own
as we follow Papa through mud cakes and bristled grass,
and the sun hovers over the tree line.
When we come to the first house,
Papa twists the pin and pries it open
to reveal a stratum of
feathers
twigs
moss
and
lichen
He pulls out the block of insulation
and throws it down on the yellow grass.
The second and third are identical.
With each eviction, we back away
and try not to breathe the dust and detritus.
On the fourth, I run ahead
to loosen the board myself.
When I peer through the gap
I see a bluebird—still perfectly persevered
on its bed of debris
despite the winter snow and wind.
Its eyes are hollow,
but the feathers remain bright cerulean.
For a moment I can only stare, open-mouthed.
How long has it been here? Dead like this?
So light, so fragile in death.
The four wooden boards have become
a sanctuary for a small bird
whose life evaporated into icy air.
I stick its bed with a screwdriver and
slowly lower it to the ground,
away from my son’s gaze.
With no one to mourn it,
but a 33-year-old woman who, sometimes,
in the middle of the day
shivers at its lonely feathers
stirred for the first time since fall
by the new spring breeze.