Tara Bray

I climbed the roll of hay to watch the heron in the pond. He waded a few steps out, then back, thrusting his beak under water, pulling it up empty, but only once. Later I walked the roads for miles, certain he’d be there when I returned. How is it for him, day after day, his brittle legs rising from warm green scum, his graceful neck curled, damp in the bright heat? It’s a dull world. Every day, the same roads, the sky, the dust, the barn caving into itself, the tin roof twisted and scattered in the yard. Again, the bank covered with oxeye daisy that turns to spiderwort, to chicory, and at last to goldenrod. Each year, the birds— thick in the air and darting in wild numbers— grow quiet, the grasses thin, the light leaves earlier each day. The heron stood stone-still on my spot when I returned. And then, his wings burst open, lifting the steel- blue rhythm of his body into flight. I touched the warm hay. Hoping for a trace of his wild smell, I cupped my hands over my face: nothing but the heat of fields and skin. It wasn’t long before the world began to breathe the beat of ordinary hours, stretching out again beneath the sky.

The girl was known for shitting in her yard. I did so little for her.  She was small, a dandelion orb with ragged hair like an old woman’s burnt from dye. Her face showed little sign of poverty— it was her dusty shoes cut open at the top that told. A bone look she’d mastered young, yet the curve of her face was edible, like a rounded sparrow in hand. She wasn’t mean, but did what she wanted—quietly, with a lift to her chin, while I struggled to teach her anything. I’d like to say I brushed her brittle hair, called her beautiful, coaxed out sight words that dawdled on her tongue. I dream of her spinning like a fairy dervish in my failure. Consider this a prayer, a foolish one.