Flock

I've given more crumbs

to the huddled snowy birds

than coins to beggars.

---

Snow day. Almost a blizzard - what's the definition of a blizzard, anyway? if it's blowing and drifting snow and very low visibility, we have that.
I've been watching the sparrows on the terrace, the way they flock when startled by a human shadow behind the curtains, or a monstrous yellow plow going by; the way they settle back down, hunched up, fluffy, on the terracotta pot rims and copper planter, on the trellis; the way they've left their dance-steps in the snow above the golden crumbs.

I've needed a quiet day like this. In the morning, before it was fully light, I did my meditation, and then listened to Radio Bartok: a string of classical recordings punctuated by the murmur of voices in Hungarian, undecipherable and therefore relegated gratefully to the background of my mind. All the while, the snow billowed in white veils between me and the trees, while the sparrows hopped and fed and hung in the bare branches of the hedge, moving like the music across a scene rendered in white and sepia.

Most of all, I realize I need a break from the computer. I want things to move more slowly for a few days, and to pay attention to the world in front of my eyes, the real world: the icy crystals that shiver and shrink under my warm hand, the prick of the evergreen needles, the heft of a book, the voices of the little birds reassuring each other, and the howl of the wind.