Rocks no feathers. The milk, buttermilk, and salt warmed in the pot. I glanced back to the kitchen table where he sat; his chair faced the table but was close enough to reach the windowsill when he turned around. Between glances, he spun in the chair and leaned against the window to watch the rain. The curds separated from the whey. He tried to climb onto the back edge of the chair. “Please sit down.” “Sit down,” he repeated and scrunched down in the chair. I scooped the curds into the cheesecloth-lined strainer. He gathered the rocks and feathers from the sill and lined them across the table. After I finished making cheese, I made him a hotdog with ketchup along with broccoli and apple slices for lunch. He quickly ate then grabbed the feathers and rocks with ketchup hands. “Rocks no feathers,” I said.