“Do birds cry?”
She loved these conversations with her daughter. When she was pregnant she had researched why the sky was blue and why grass was green. But she continued to be wholly unprepared for the depth of her young questions.
“I”m not sure sweetpea. What do you think?”
“I think they cry with their voices, not their eyes. Their song changes.” She tilted her head sideways.
“There! Do you hear it?”
She listened beyond the rustling of the trees. A soft but unmistakable tuneful lament could be heard, carrying on the wind.
She shivered, kissing her daughter’s miraculous head.
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