Feathered Magicians

A warm spell allows a patchwork of green islands to appear here and there in the front yard. Juncos by the dozen dart around a cardinal couple picking through latent grass. I haven't seen the male cardinal all winter, despite having heard his chirp through the kitchen window. I'm not sure if it's the same couple that nests in the rhododendron just off the front porch, but it is always ever only cardinals. It's been weeks without sun but a least these feathered magicians invite February with an abundance of good will.

The greenhouse work starts Monday. Thusly this week is spent preparing good meals and reading and writing just a bit. Soon there will only be aching muscles and errands on off days and rest when possible. I look forward to growing things and not being so damn cold. Spring mimes her intentions beneath frozen earth but at least winter will no longer free fall through the months.

Sleep walking through snow drifts. Lately, 4 a.m. bellows and chimes. Springtime is typically when that hour cuts away the sleep. Why now? Why not now? I read cookbooks in the middle of the night or listen to podcasts or pace on tip toes. At this hour the dog no longer leaps up to guide me through the house. My measured steps are old news. Did you know I planted forget-me-nots along the creek last year? Blue may be the closest we get. Thus sayeth the Lord.

Before the house wakes I feed the dog; make a fire; coffee; breakfast. I settle into snow falling around distant train sighs and writing. What if some day some one made breakfast or coffee or a fire for me? A certain distance compounds while another abates. The men in my life are complicated which doesn't say anything about them. While typing I see soot on my knuckles and feel the grace of my work. So I guess I am the fire builder and the breakfast cook and the coffee maker. Maybe that's what getting older is for – knowing what you can do for others.