The birds are returned. I hear them sonorous, settled in the tops of trees. From a cedar, finches burst, hidden and flashing like fish in cover then bursting in sudden sound of fan and burst like minnow school in airborn sea. They flee, circle short, and settle back feeding on the small blue berries; fanning, flashing, repeating as I stand at distance and no serve.
The sun is changed. The grey is departed; and world seems made and ready for the shift: northward creeping, longer staying, sun; warmth and return of living hues and songs from winter-neutral tones. I know it still is winter; but spring’s making ready for its change.