to the squirrel and robin who saved me from the dullness of the noonday demon, yesterday in the misty sadness of a world already sprung but ever awaiting the light, the sound, and the joy of Spring.
too see—to watch the squirrels play outside the corridors of my digitally corrupted mind and let the ink flow naturally, mingling with the minuscule drops of rain, waters, O waters from heaven appear to light upon my page, softly, soundlessly, gently spreading the dark script wider at intervals unpredictable not because we could not, but because we shant. Rather, we should watch the squirrels and robins play and hunt and dig and seek sustenance with abandon. We should fly like the flitting birds and twitch like the tails of overzealous bushytailed rodents, or so some call them. We should hunt for the worms in the languid day as well as morning and burrow for nuts as well. We should sift through the soaked leaves and light upon the plush verdant lawns, escape to Spring which has and is already sprung, though for all, seemingly not yet. They truly are beautiful, as God makes watercolors with my penstrokes. They are the true industrious who work to the bone in bone-chill cold. They inspire because they ex-spire while we spiral. They are our more near worker bees and ants. But also our ever present, ever known, though not often lauded models of leisurely labor and perilously play. -To all the sweet songbirds and silent swifts and to all the silly squirrels and chipper chipmunks, our dear elder younger siblings of days 5 and 6, -We love you, look up to you, and are sweetened and sombered by your presence out our doors.
-JRT