This is more like what I expect of March. A bite in the wind that stings your face and hands and makes your eyes tear while you're walking. Iron grey skies and bare trees. An occasional whiff of wood smoke. Chickadees making their small sounds, maybe whimsical maybe lonely. I think it's your childhood that determines that.
When I hear that sound, I remember early years. The old neighborhood was on a dead end street. We kids had the run of it. No yard was off limits, and we roamed the territories at will. One day I heard these early Spring birds. I was on my own, between our house and the neighbors, and the sound made me feel alone and hopeless. There were other things going on in my life, but it's the birdsong I remember.
I felt a little like Thoreau today out there walking, pretending I was in some great wilderness, just a few hundred yards from town.
When I hear that sound, I remember early years. The old neighborhood was on a dead end street. We kids had the run of it. No yard was off limits, and we roamed the territories at will. One day I heard these early Spring birds. I was on my own, between our house and the neighbors, and the sound made me feel alone and hopeless. There were other things going on in my life, but it's the birdsong I remember.
I felt a little like Thoreau today out there walking, pretending I was in some great wilderness, just a few hundred yards from town.
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