My muse visited me this morning, in the guise of a Mockingbird spreading his wings and peering up at me on my porch as I was doing my sun salutations, as if to say “winter is nearly over, and I’m ready to fly — how about you?” A chill in the air still and patches of ice on the ground, but Spring bubbling underneath as a whispered promise. First Robin also, as a harbinger and scavenger, investigating under the Blue Spruce for bits of food. Scurrying and then stopping as if to catch the last words of something that was just said by a soul only they can see; a presence only they can feel. I’m dumb to it mostly, but every now and then, in a fleeting glimmer of a sparkling gem, I catch it. And I am able to share that moment with the bird, for perhaps a second or a millisecond, before I’m shut out again and left to admire from afar, with a sense of wonderment and awe.
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