Day 22: Birdsong.
In the weeks since I locked myself inside, spring has arrived.
There’s still a chill in the air — the bracing temperatures actually took my breath away when I took the compost bucket to the alley this morning — but the light has changed.
The sun’s a little sunnier, as if to say, “I’m ready for my close-up.”
Everything is a little greener: the brown, patchy lawn in the parkway just beyond the apartment windows has started showing sparse verdant growth. On my walk yesterday, daffodils in full, leonine buttery splendor. Hyacinths poking through the soil. Snowdrops and crocus replaced by shoots of bulb stalks that will explode into color overnight.
If the any-day-now mystery of those not-yet-bloomed flowers isn’t enough to get me out of the house for an occasional walk, I don’t know what is.
And mixed with the occasional sizzle of sweet potatoes roasting in the oven, rising over the clattering bing-bong of the CTA and the hum of Western Avenue traffic just beyond my little residential haven: birdsong.
The cats have been spending more time at their carpet-covered tree in the window; they’ve noticed the change. River’s own chirping — which begins when she actually starts to spot birds in their branches, desperate to obey that primal nature to hunt, to kill — won’t be far off.
For my part, I’m not sure I realized that birds stop singing during the winter. Or that their music was something i would begin to notice as the seasons began to change.
But Everything Out There now holds a little more wistful charm, a little greater sense of “beyond,” and those chirps rising over the city din are so beautiful this morning that I could cry.
My yoga pants are smeared with paint. Every bare inch of my skin is covered in flecks of the stuff. My cheeks are just pink with a dinner-hour sunburn that will fade by tomorrow night, and my belly is churning, full of ice cream I shouldn’t have eaten but wouldn’t have dared resist. On a…Read More
I can just see the shimmer of pirate fireworks going off across Western Avenue through my office window; there are explosions in the distance from every direction. Our festivities are long over for the day: We gathered to eat, drink, and sweat through our clothes with family — responsibly distanced and all, of course. I…Read More
It’s not yet 7 a.m., and the world is waking up beyond the sanctuary of my back deck. Birds start their morning chirping hellos at one another, cloistered and invisible among the leaves. Western Avenue hums. In spite of the drama during last week’s farmers market, I came home with an armload of tiny herbs…Read More