birds eye

Sometimes I think being stuck inside feels like sandpaper to Tolliver's soul.
He painted a bird feeder from Poppy last month, and put it right in the middle of the yard. When he's not sure what to do with himself, he sits and watches wildlife that visits for seed. He hollers at squirrels, notices feathers on the ground nearby, and consults the bird identification guide we borrowed from the library.

While he was at school last week, we heard a bird fly into the sliding door, saw it knocked out on the back step. Telling him about it on the walk home I watched his face deflate. He has a countenance for concern - eyebrows that hurry together, lips that vanish straight into his mouth.
Before he learned to read, Tolliver learned that things die. His sister, his dog, someday his dad and mom.

Sometimes I wonder if it's that knowledge that we all have a deadline that makes it hard to sit still, giving him some incentive to make the most of right now. Maybe that's me though. Maybe his is just normal eight year old energy.