Three bursts of orange

The Africa Room. I look out the window as I fold laundry. The late summer sun dropping slowly, lower behind the South Minneapolis houses to the west. A movement from the tree, floating downward. A sharp burst of orange, suddenly, caught by the hot, bright beam of sunlight.

Just one.

The soft cloth bending in my hands.

Another glance. A gentle, quick flutter. Same hot beam, another burst of orange.

Folding. Look. A third burst of orange.

Sigh.

Small folded stacks.

Tank top, shorts, ankle socks I put on.

Look again. Wait. Stare. Nothing.

Sigh

Shoes.

Not yet.