Late in January the robins swooped in and lifted the veil of winter, even as the frost still stepped on the brown grass and the skies were smeared with charcoal. On a chilly day in early March, the sky sang one brilliant blue note all day long and the wild cherry tree wore petals and perfume. The robins, still visiting in droves, attached themselves for minutes at a time to the cherry limbs and gave me time to wonder what they saw and smelled. How different was their world from mine?

Something worn and raw in me looked up, wanting something I couldn’t define. Now, I stare at the image captured by my hungry camera and eye my unrest. It’d be too easy to say I’d like to know what it’s like to fly. It’s not the flying I crave. It’s the courage to reach inside myself and find my bird-mind, the self in me that knows, instinctually, where to go, what to do. No this-ing and that-ing. No if-ing and what-if-ing. Just taking in, like breath, moving on, like breath, making life.

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