Thinking About My Father's Hands Before a Storm

This morning I watched a little bird chase
a much bigger bird across the sky.
I should be able to tell you what kinds of birds
they were, knowing how you desire specifics.
But they were too far away, black winged
shadows against white, the sky
that is making room for a storm now.
Birds are hiding. I am hiding too. I know
soon the dog will huddle beneath my every step,
and finally the windows will rattle and the rain
will come to wash away whatever there is
that needs cleansing. For some reason, I’m thinking
about my father’s hands. How he wrapped them tightly
around his drink when he came home from work,
home from the world I knew so little about.
After the second drink, his face would loosen.
It was as if storm clouds were leaving his face.
I think about his hands, how wrinkled they seemed,
how he would put them on my shoulders when he thought
I needed comfort. He never told me
he loved me. I still can feel them sometimes.
And if I looked out the window now, I’m sure
I would see them flapping across the sky
like unnamed birds chasing away this dark weather