Birds on a Saturday
I love waking up to the chattering of Birds on a Saturday morning. Their songs let me believe Spring is here. Without looking out my window, I see the sun shining on each blade of dark green grass, casting spiky shadows on the heated sidewalk. I hear a plane fly over head, and see its tiny frame surging in the cloudless sky, leaving a string of puffy white behind it.
Then I hear some loud commercial downstairs and wonder why my grandparents are watching TV instead of enjoying the weather outside.
I then relapse into the present, realizing with a certain sadness that snow is everywhere. Icicles are clinging to rooftops and hanging under the frames of cars. The sun is hidden by a dull white—there’s a lifeless mist everywhere, matching the ground, stretching over the whole town. I don’t know if it’s the sky or clouds. But I can’t see the sun.
So I listen to the Birds, and they give me hope for Spring.