My bluebirds are gone. The bluebirds that have raised their young in a house made by my kids when they were in elementary school. The bluebirds I have watched each spring for years flit from the fence post down into their house—the house that faces east, the direction they prefer—to check on their little ones.
I have watched from my dining room window, hoping they were just late, asking out loud, “Where are they? Why don’t they come back?”