Once, when we lived in the orchard, I pulled a tarp from a motorcycle frame and found a nest in the engine’s hollow: a storm cloud, black and bright with the jut, flap, shudder of wings-- in my alarm, a stirring nearly still. I saw it, then it swallowed me. Now listen to my secret: I came to life in that dagger-dance, like a plunge into deep water. I was electric, quick as wind or a foal stung to braying, swaddled in a caul of wasps. Stay, my brain stuttered inside this coming-alive, stay right here. As if, for the first time, I’d drawn breath. But Father scooped me into his arms, ran for the trailer door as I bawled like murder. That was the last of all I felt except the squalls of pain. That night, I smarted in the dark we shared—thin as a splinter. Rain hurled against the roof, the pecan trees creaked. We lay wide-eyed, listening for twisters, as I told you stories, my whispers swarming like a fever dream of angels. Our goodbyes were being born.