Spring Song in Winter

Winter. Not days marked on the calendar. Rather, from December now 15 months ago, when it was cold and rainy and the virus first announced itself to the world. Through now. Even through the scorching August days, this year in toto was winter.

I’m facing east. The sun rises over the hills and my daffodils. The birds know it is spring and they announce it with song. Spring mornings at sunrise are instantly meditative. My coffee today comes from beans roasted my favorite shop. Rare now, because it requires a drive haven’t been making this long winter.

The birds: I must say more about them. The crescendo of the spring morning. Too many voices to count. Too many different songs to distinguish. There is a lone turkey crying hello hello hello. Some roosters in the distance calling bird reveille. Songbirds and sparrows in every direction. A couple crows making sure they are heard. Crows punctuate: they are crows.

Once the sun is high that I can feel warmth, the bird orchestra rolls off. Each type of song, save for the roosters, is still being sung. But not as the full orchestra.

How many of these mornings do I have left, this season? I feel conflict reaching for this writing pad: thoughts are ready for paper. They want to be caught. But the bird crescendo will not linger for my ideas. My attention is diverted, and this musical morning will pass.

How many of these do I have left? Number of spring days per year. Number of those days I am in this place. Number of days I ready to listen, not calendaring, e-mailing, or having the morning news. Number of years I have. The problem of probabilities quickly reduces to the obvious: too few.

Today I chose the pencil and paper. Today I have more to write about a winter that lasts a year.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I will attend.