As soon as Finn and I rush out the door--pink skies practically yanking us--I imagine Colorado or the Camino Trail, certain that I could walk forever. And now, with that same door cracked open to let in bird song and fresh air, I wonder what I'm doing inside with all of that outside pulsing right there.
Even the birds seem different this morning--energized and spring-time chatty. Cardinals practice their half-forgotten morning songs while chickadees pronounce their namesake over and over again. Halfway around Woods Park, I swear I hear the "tsssssss tssssss tssssss" of Cedar Waxwings just as a flock of birds alight from a tree.
I am comfortable in my delusions, content to believe I've seen the unbelievable, lightened by the experience.
That is why, as I pass my neighbor's Honey Locust tree, its bark like the curled lips of a dried-out pond, I stop to look for my tiny Brown Creeper friend, where, earlier this week, it was tucked in and nearly invisible. Of course it's not there--what are the chances, after all, that a bird would return to this very spot at this very moment on this very morning?
What harm is there, though, in hoping? In recalling the sweet, startling moment when mottled brown became living thing?
Indeed, this is a morning that begs to be lived in. A crisp salve against a world too often drawn with harsh, delineating lines. I, for one, hope to blur those lines all day long.
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