When the sun casts soft, glowing dimples across the caramel wooden fence on a January day, I can taste the promise of Spring. There’s something in the way the air intermittently sways the neighbor’s wind chimes into a drowsy hum of song that says stay here, listen.
The birds flit from the Cedar to the Doug, following their own circuitous path through the afternoon. They chatter and jabber to one another; sit close, fly apart to opposite trees for a quick rest, then take flight again in an arcing swoop only to land again on swaying branches of the same tree. A soft breeze rustles the air with electric hopes of love. A buzz on the tongue of desire and the promise of full blooms.
What is time but a circle through the same places inside oneself, each visit noticing something both familiar and new?