Four springs have passed.
Starlings come home to roost, then leave when weeds begin to overrun the flowers.
My second child throws seedlings up over her head, offering sustenance to birds she can barely reach or see. My daughter blows dandelions, watches them float up to the realm of birds. This child is a tree who has never known axes, her hands thick in their knowledge of dirt. We pull weeds from the crocus bed. She finds a piece of the crane, still pink.