Grows in the neighbor’s backyard two doors down. The hands always pray at midnight when I am fitful. Against the cloudy February sky, they are shadow puppet birds that want to be real birds. They are singing to me. They are singing the lyric of the rowboat. “Down, down, down the stream lies your death and destiny.” The forms of their cupping leaves confirm that there are a glorious number of birds sleeping close in the dark. I just saw a rose-colored finch for the first time. The inventory of beauty stacks like a quarry at night. This morning, the birds are done trembling against the storm and the turquoise-throated hummingbird carries his thunder in his wings. He follows me and my giant hands home.