few brave birds who have just reached us on their annual 1800 mile flight from the winter quarters of Latin America. As I studied them from my bedroom window I hope they weren't studying me back, for I imagine I was a silly sight eagerly intruding on their morning serenades.
Here's the thing.
To some of us birds are like flights of angels who sweep in and out of our lives something like the all-too-taken-for-granted fragrances of greening lawns and budding trees. Chicago is not a gentle climate, and once winter sinks its teeth into us, it takes its stubborn time before letting go. However, once February has sneaked into this part of the country, winter knows its teeth have only so much bite left. And the birds, they are the gifted harbingers of the welcome spring to come.
I hate winter. Frankly I see absolutely no purpose to it when other climates of the world feast on sunnny-and-seventy year round. Yes, it must be endured, but no, it need not be enjoyed.
The poet in my heart admits to the snow in my yard; however, once I hear the first lyrics of the first returning birds, I zing with hope. With anticipation. Oh, I grant there are brutal days ahead, crammed with snow and ice and those interminable weather forecasters delighting in reporting them to us. And yet there is an ordained rhythm to this planet, to this climate, to this hater-of-winter. So then, here in the dying days of winter, my hate turns to honor. I honor the approaching days of sunshine, blue skies and thousands of flights of serenading angels from the south.
The poet wrote, "Summer is what life ought to be." To me Spring is the pedestal upon which summer shines its beneficent warmth upon a white planet now joyfully ordained to turn green. Green for hope, for promise, for renewed life and love. If I could I'd invite my feathered prophets into my living room, but then why would they want to exchange their limitless world for mine? I'll simply look and listen.
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