“Birds, birds,” she shrieked with delight.
“The drab one is a girl like you,” I told her,
“but the bright one is a little boy.”
“Yellow,” she cried again with joy, “Yellow.”
Tiny hands plucked at air, catching nothing.
I can still see her standing there, her nose,
all wet and runny. She left damp, snot-stained
marks, a sort of signature, on the cold wet glass.
She’s long gone now, way back home, but still
the window stays unwashed and her shadow
often comes between me and the morning sun.