Last spring, my cousin in this story came to Minneapolis with his wife and two adult children to visit. I have only seen him a handful of times as an adult, and it always seems surprising that he is now a grown man. My memories of visiting Thailand as a child include him — a lanky, laughing boy with a buzz cut and the school uniform of navy blue shorts, white shirt — and our adventures together.
Light streams through curtains of dust.
With my cousin I climb, each step waking more dust.
Hooked on our fingers like elaborate rings
are several small straw cages,
tiny birds cheeping inside.
We come into a room, wooden beams, wooden floors,
empty, but for sunlight from the windows at front.
Dust, wood, light – these muffle the busy sounds below.
At the windows, we lean out to the sunshine.
And then we begin: taking one cage at a time,
we open it, sending each bird into the light.
Amphibious 