Prayers of a bird and boy
On those mornings we whistled, the bird and I. He whistled and I whistled, he whistled and I. On those mornings I waited for my father and my brother, for the fullness of dawn and the day. I waited while breakfast was finished and while the sun rose sluggish and slow to meet the heat of summer. I waited by the work van under the tree, under the telephone pole, under the sky. The tree was a big red tree with thick red arms going up around the phone lines, and the sky was soft blue, broken down into odd shapes by the branches of the tree. I waited there, those mornings, that Texas summer, and that’s how I heard the bird.
He whistled two short notes, and then one long. He waited, and then did it again. The first note was slow, the second quick, and then the long one was left there, hanging there, long and lingering there.
Read the full essay @ Killing the Buddha