He always hung them in the porch,
splatters of red, blue and gold,
tiny beaks bright orange or black,
wings spanning north to south, east to west.
He knew every call, every crow, every sparrow,
eagle, bluebird, swallow, as he tricks
us grandkids and my grandmother into thinking
one of them has entered the house.
He helped fix their nests, watched over them
and in death, they accept him as one.
Do you believe in reincarnation?
he asked me when the clock ticked its final hours.
I did not know how to respond, but somehow
I'd like to believe he is encased in their feathers,
has grown his own wings and flies overhead
to watch down on me.
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