The nine
year girl
waited, standing,
watching, with braids,
a Christmas air pistol
in her hand, her brother's
much-asked present.
After the
Sun lit six a.m.,
she was seven years old.
She had built a birdhouse
in churchcamp, Summer.
Before the Sun left ten p.m.,
she was nine years old,
Christmas,
with braids in her hair,
standing, watching
the spasm of a mudlark
with a pellet in it's head.
Then, the
cat got in on it
and she went inside,
quietly returned the pistol
to her brother's room.
The birds
still came
and sang each morning,
never knew or didn't mind.
