Fifty birds scurry within the labyrinth of brittle, winter trees outside my living-room gazing station.
Merrily, they travel amidst their tangled and barren jungle-gym, dramatically dipping from the limb they’re on, over to the branches of a neighboring tree.
“Merrily” is my choice of words. My perception. It really does look like they’re having fun. But, maybe these birds are frantic. Or confused. Or worried.
It’s only January 25th. It’s the dead of winter. Why are there 50, spring-time birds in my yard? The trees are naked, vulnerable; they don’t like the birds seeing them like this.
“It usually goes like THIS,” the trees whisper amongst themselves. “We get all dressed up in our brand-new, spring-green finery. Then, we send out our yearly invitations to the birds to come on over and pick a spot for their new nests. Everything’s all messed up.”
The birds are breaking protocol; they’re interrupting what is supposed to be a long winter’s nap; they’re out of sync and they know it. The trees know it. I know it. We all know it.