Paper Birds and the Breath of Dawn

In last night's dream, I identify each bird in a nearby tree. From a close distance, I see a small creature slowly climb the tree to snatch a bluebird for a meal. I am both horrified and accepting of the circle of life, but I am eventually relieved to find that the bluebird was a paper decoy.

After a long night of indented sleep, I wake later than usual to the morning chatter of the Titmouse, Nuthatch and Robin. Michigan begins her spring dance by warming into the upper 70's, allowing everything to burst out of the ground with pomp and circumstance. Within days of daffodils and tulips, the temperature drops to freezing and it snows again.

Kyle mentions the runoff from the gutters causing washouts and sink holes

to which I excitedly mention the possible addition of rainwater collection barrels

to which his immediately rolls his eyes

to which I lock his gaze and say, “it's a good idea and you know it”

to which he smiles, turns, moves a little dirt with the tip of his shoes, and stares off through the pines into a fading sun.

If I'm in charge of the land, then I am in charge of the land, no? I walk towards the creek just in time to see a frog leap to gulp a bumble bee from the shallows. Within seconds the frog spit out the bee and it swam to refuge on a rock. While Kyle checks the breaks in the sprinkler system, I disappear into the house to research ways to make or trade for something that can be used to collect rainwater.

At 4 a.m., a waning crescent moon hooks light through budding tree limbs. A Dylan song is stuck in my head and so he goes with me into the breath of dawn. Last week the moon was in Libra and this week, Aquarius. I have no idea what that means but reading it does bring a half-smile.

Dylan, Kora, coffee and I slip out into the dark. To know the exact moment when the very first bird sings its song to the day is to glimpse the understory of the Cosmos. I think about what it means to braid something....the tension, three strands intertwining to become stronger, healing, practicality, and mostly, beauty. I think about weaving together song, oxygen and soil; about paper blue birds, regurgitated bubble bees, and rainwater; about how long it takes a seed to fall, be buried and grow . . .

The moon disappears from view as the morning sky asks me about my paper wings.