by Laura Stott

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A moon rises and children parade

around the corner carrying

colorful birds in their hands.

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They are so careful with their secrets.

They want to be asked, What kind

of blue is your bird?

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This is childhood: In each doorway

they let one fly, exotic wings folding

still on the steps, behind

screen doors,

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or disappearing, a small point

in a blank sky.

Birds flutter through hallways,

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large white and iridescent

green feathers. They land on linoleum

kitchen floors, beside windows

that look on old back yards.

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Door to door the children are gathering sweets

and a little boy dashes across the grass,

carrying something bright and orange,

its tail waving behind him like a flag.

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One is given an apple,

another a bit of cake.

What kind of blue is your bird?