Catching Bluebirds

Elm trees stood in front like two thirsty
sentinels guarding the few blades
of grass underneath the wooden porch.
In the distance, a trail of dust followed the
rusted car rumbling up to our house.

We waited at the door, my brother and I, listening
to beans bubbling on the stove, savoring tortillas
toasting on the cast iron grill. We pressed against
the mesh straining to see who was coming.

Mother hollered, “Don’t slam the screen door.”
Too late, we tumbled out to greet our guests.
No sooner did they cross the threshold when
my brother shouted, “Look!” pointing to a
burst of color outside the picture window.

Everyone rushed out and there
across the street, in an empty field , were
splashes of blue against the desert monochrome,
a family of bluebirds, three, four or maybe more.

Mother and Aunt Josie hurried out in their cotton dresses
holding their brightly colored aprons high above their heads.
Dad and Uncle Leo followed, chasing the birds from weed to
sage. We squealed, hoping they would catch one for us to hold.

Out of the west a dust devil twisted onto the landscape.

The women
bowed to the harsh sting of
sand
pelting
bare
skin.

They buried
their faces in squatting laps
with
dresses
pulled
tight
around folded legs
guarding
against
sharp
pain
preventing
gusts
from
blowing their skirts up to reveal
the color
of their
underwear.

Trees
bending, losing leaves.
Weeds
tumbling
free from
their
roots.

We started howling waiting
for
the
whirling
winds
to
subside.

Then, just as quickly it disappeared.

“No,” we gasped, the flurry of blue was also gone.

Laughing, the adults went inside for their meal.
My brother and I refused. We lingered by the window.
He scratched the paint peeling from the ledge.
I traced the crack along the dusty windowpane.
We closed our eyes and the tears began to fall.