The birds come back first, though it’s seven degrees out.
I watch them: raucous, small-bodied rebels, singing in the trees. Red-breasted balls of blue fluff, they wear their colors as a dare — an act of defiance against February’s gray.
I watch them: hopping. Chattering. They warble and catcall, leaving a complicated series of footprints on the snow, like the steps of some wild and tribal sort of dance.
As if winter was a thing to be laughed at.
And maybe it is.
I dress for dinner.
Though I’m unsure of it, I slip on a pair of electric-blue stilettos. Twirl in front of the mirror, just to try it. Tip back my head and laugh.
And it still feels like an act, so I wear all-black instead, and go out into the gray in more orderly fashion.
Still: I am listening to the birds, and I am learning.
Tonight I set out those blue shoes, thinking, perhaps. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, when there are a few more signs of spring.
In the meantime, I purse my lips and practice a little whistle…
Oh, friends. Hear me…
There are a thousand little ways to be brave. ❤