Goodness, I love spring. I love the tulip bulbs blooming and the trees budding. Most of all, I love that the birds are back.
I had a lapse in my running. You know: illness and darkness and vacation… it added up to a few weeks with no miles on my feet. As I age, I lose fitness so much faster (and regain it so much more slowly), and these last few runs have been hard. The ease I felt in my long January runs was absent. I am slowly clawing my way back to running. To function.
But the birds are back, and each time I see one, I am inspired to go a little further.
- a house finch singing from the peak of my neighbor’s roof.
- the pair of robins flirting in a budding apple tree.
- a flock of redwing blackbirds in the reeds and cattails.
- a hawk, sitting completely still on a stone wall. Over my music, I could hear a frantic, repetitive keening that I thought was from him, but it was from the terrified prairie dogs he was watching.
- a flicker, so pretty I tried to snap a photo, but he was long gone by the time I had untangled my phone from my pocket.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul/And sings the tune without the words/And never stops- at all-
And sweetest – in the Gale- is heard/And sore must be the storm/That could abash the little Bird/That kept so many warm-
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land/And on the strangest Sea/Yet- never- in Extremity/It asked a crumb- of me. –Emily Dickinson