It breaks the silence of the winter morning with such incongruence, it’s easy to imagine that I imagined it.
But no, there it is again. Birdsong. One thin call reaching out in the cold, and in the distance an even thinner answer.
Once, twice, a third time before the soloists move on.
Such an unpretentious thing, the back-and-forth between birds. Simple and delightful in its simplicity. In the spring you hardly notice it. After spring’s been sprung for a while, that is. When something’s become the norm, what’s to notice?
But in the winter, you notice the song.
When you notice you might even remember, even though it’s been a few hundred days since the equinox. The March one, not the September one.
You might remember when the sun wasn’t only bright but also warm, when the fescue was actually green and there were wildflowers along the way. You might remember that patch of berries doing what berry patches are supposed to do, offering up a bit of sweet for breakfast or jam or pie.
Remembering is good. Of course, it’s good. Because the now – this moment or these moments – aren’t always all good. And while it is true that there is always something to be grateful for, it is also true that sometimes there might not be a whole lot of somethings on any given day.
So, remembering is good.
And so this is what I do, lingering a little too long out in the cold, hoping that the chanteuses might come back.
I remember that spring does come eventually, and the fescue – or really if you’re here in my yard the Digitaria – will green up again. (“Digitaria” being a much nicer-sounding term than “crabgrass”. But I digress…)
I remember that no matter what you or I or the world is going through, eventually we’ll get through it. Pandemics or winter or waiting.
And, eventually, berry patches will get back to doing what they’re supposed to do.
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