The day’s rain now watermarks through dust on the hood of a car, unremarkable as the clouds.
A Robin lands on a skinny limb, surveys the fallow for nutrition or nesting material, and then flies off. A pair of tiny Swallows flit across a lawn devoid of colour, last year’s leaves pressed into the surface.
It is as much evening as afternoon. Daylight offers no real answers. It must be Spring.
Hope is in the wind.
We don’t notice the absence of birdsong until it returns, then wonder how we made it through the Winter. We long for warmer mornings when you sleep with an open window and wake to the joyous sound.
We should make a point of listening, closer, to the birds. We should notice when we lose the sound to chilly winds, knowing hope will return.