by Moshe Wolf

After dinner, my daughter shuffles her feet on the sidewalk, scattering leaves as she goes. A light drizzle falls around us. She sings the rain song. She takes my hand and asks if I remember when the paper cranes drifted down from the clouds. This never happened but I go with the moment. They rode rainbows and built paper nests. They fly around looking for stories and milk. I interject with questions. Did they lay any eggs? Did a small plane drop them like leaflets? But then I think what if it did happen and I am just too old to see? I cup my hand over my forehead and peer down the street. We stand at the edge of the property. We look into the gray horizon. For a few minutes, we both see the cranes drift toward us, their tiny wishes scattering over our cul-de-sac.