By David Henson
As he watches for her, he checks the time and winces at the photo of his uniformed son.
A flash of red snags his attention. The cardinal dips its beak, flies away. How will he tell her? First her mother, now her brother.
He hasn’t freshened the birdbath in days. The water must be filthy. A bluejay lands; he taps the window before it can drink. The words, what are the words? He goes outside to the spigot. There are no words, but the water can be clean. He twists the handle; the hose jumps.
Behind him, school bus brakes squeak.
Wow, so much happening, so much only hinted at. Well done.
Heartbreaking. Well done.
Too much heartless and brutal.
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