syrinx

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i understand. the splay of his grip is rheumy, his knuckles wrapped like the knees of elephants that remember and remember and remember.  sometimes he crooks his palm around his ear, the outer ridge poetically furred.  a rabbit's ear.  his eyebrows are coming crocheted together, gold and distinct like memories of cattails and wheatgrass bristling from hilltops we can barely climb, anymore.  i am happy, so so happy, i almost can't breathe.  he is laughing lines onto his face - crow's toes and bold robin's breast and jay eyes that know the difference between Blue and Scrub.  sometimes the space between his eyes turns to leather, but then the backyard birds fan their feathers and he remembers the brand of woodpecker and says Look, Look at His Speckles. Oh Look at his Red Crest. Look, Look, Look. then the birds knead their lovely feet into the tender suede of his face and age him with chuckling rapture.

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