Writing on the Wall

Robin calls brighten the dull matt of a sunless day and at a woodpecker angle sparrows pick grit from loose mortar that bonds stones in the wall,

it is an uncharacteristic pose for them. Heavy snow-covering has made their usual hunting ground inaccessible.

No tyre indentations from traffic around the house this week, my car is almost hidden and playing at spooks in a slippery white canopy.

Three toed bird prints, animal tracks, graffiti  from the wild, I’ve been diligent with bird-feeding and changing their iced up water.

Today cloud is low, thick, making a bright haze that’s absorbed the road and hill, only one hedge-line is visible. With it a thaw has come, gutters gurgle and icicles drip pock-mark-tunnels into the pristine drifts that slope, at irregular intervels, a lacy skirt around the house.

It curtsies a contour in stillness to the garden, drive and fields.

From inside, the window-glare hurts, it highlights the squiggles that wash around inside my right eye, emphasizing the brown granular texture that appears  magnified on pale surfaces. It is improving, but the weathers dazzle reminds me I need to give it time to heal.

I’m nursing my brother too, he’s visiting and ill. His cough sounds devastating, racks his body. Good friends and family have rallied ’round with doctor trips and shopping.

I am so lucky, and appreciation for these acts of kindness, their footprints in the frozen snow are the most warming things of all.