“Ooh, make it a sad story,” the children said. “Make it a sad, sad story.” They were sitting on the fence in the late February sunlight. They had all been changed into birds.
“Once there was a needle,” I began, “and every time it pierced the lips…”
“Oh,” cried the children, “we know about that kind of sorrow. Tell us about the other.”
I must admit that I was reluctant to continue. The sunlight in the yard was so poignant after a day of rain. I could hear their little claws skittering along the fence.
“All right,” I said. “Once there was a needle, and every time it pierced the eyes…”