Whistlers' Journey

Two young brothers intent on a common goal.

We stand side by side,
toes over the edge
of the back porch
of the old two-story, 
wood-framed house
built at the turn
of the century.

The Whistling Boy by Frank Duveneck, 1872

Two young brothers
intent on a common goal:
learn to whistle
sharp, high, shrill,
by the end
of the summer.

So, there we stood,
shoulder to shoulder, 
late morning, early evening,
saying little, 
just blowing hot air 
through our lips,
watching the summer 
play out across 
neighbors' backyards.

Cut off shorts,
barefoot and barechested,
deeply tanned skin
from mowing lawns 
and lazing at the city pool.

Contorting our lips,
searching for that elusive 
just-right position 
of tongue and teeth,
blowing out our breath, 
easy, quick, crisp;
sometimes adding 
two fingers 
because someone said 
it gives you higher pitch,
but not finding it.

When it rained,
we ran out in it;
if it thundered 
accompanied by lightning,
we'd just stand there
on the covered porch 
and marvel at how
it lit up the sky.

Sometimes we'd sit
on the edge of the porch,
feet on the top step,
not say much,
just endlessly blow 
our sorry attempts.

With summer waning,
our season deadline looming, 
something clicked,
first for one of us,
then the other, 
lips and teeth
found their place,
soundless streams of air
started taking shape,
sporadic chirps grew 
into extended shrill bursts
as mornings grew cooler
and days shorter.

Our whister's journey
had only begun.