After the Storm

By Melissa Davis

The morning was starkly bright. The sunlight would not tan skin, only burn it to the bone. The air was damp with the remains of yesterday’s storm. I barely closed the door as the dog, my pathetic little companion, raced down the driveway. That’s where they were. Two dead baby birds—rain corpses. I could not, and could not help, staring at the broken bodies against the black tar. Gray downy feathers offered no cover and feeble wings were too weak to fight the wind. I pulled the dog away and ignored the flies. Yet the mother mockingbird cries from above.