Clouds litter her lawn. At first, she thinks they’re spider webs or spun tree rot. None are larger than her
fist. She could close her fingers and hide them but doesn’t have enough hands.

Later, she collects them with a trash picker and sees her six-year-old son standing on the porch.
Something releases from his palm and nestles on a peony.

“What is it?” she asks. Thinks pillow foam. Dandelion seed. Samoyed fur.

“The birds can’t sleep,” he says. “Teddy helped me and he wants to help them. They’re tired.”

His eyes mist over. Some smaller knots of white cling to his shirt and she brushes them off. She wonders
how it must have torn at him and still, he turned his bear inside out, shaking out the fluff.

Crouching, she smoothes his worry down and thinks of baby birds. Together, they let go. Watch how it
lands, gently.