because i like storks and you like camera stuff

You taught me to talk; at six years old my blonde-eyed innocence only got so close to me before it started to hurt, and I was listening to Tori Amos records before I could tie my shoes. But you taught me to talk, and you gave me your yellow boots to wear, and you taught me which windows were safe to break, and which had to be wholly avoided. And we were wolves in the garb of eight-year enemies, sheep with our winter brambles worked deep into the oily white. I know you know things I don't guess at, about building tall buildings and operating chainsaws and video games. Unintentional Nintendo romances stir around my ankles as I pass.

Today in the backyard:
A bald-faced stork bobs among the long grasses that you missed cutting, and the twine and tin can birdfeeders. Throwing stones at a squirrel through the broken glass, you see him, laugh, and run for your camera. I am at the counter, slicing green onions on an abstract wood cutting board and I am alert and rings of music fall past us. Awkwardly, the stork flies away, and awkwardly, we follow one-by-one.