Article Link: http://exchangepress.com/article/agelaius-pheoniceus-in-mid-winter/5026161/
I walk anyway. Days still short, frosted air searing my nostrils.
I walk anyway. I must welcome my friends home.
Every February, they fly north from Mexico to nest at our pond. Disguised as crows or grackles until their unfurling wings pop thunder bolts of orange on red. Red on orange. Red winged blackbirds, Frida and Diego.
Even as ice clamps down pond waters, my friends—I call them Frida and Diego after Mexican artists Kahlo and Rivera—sing. Raucously, Kahlo, and Rivera sing. Generously they have taught me their songs; so, I too return every year to our pond to welcome them even as my feet slide precariously on the path.
From my shoulders, I ritualistically raise then release, raise then release, my upper arms to honor them as they greet me.
They sing. Together we sing, raising then releasing shoulders and wings:
Amen, we made it through.
Amen we gather.
Again, we sing after this harshest winter of Covid loss, of death.
Proclaiming in flaming red and orange: We made it through together.
When our chorus is all there is and all there needs to be, glittering joy-diamonds speckle my cheeks. My friends are home again and welcomed.
My un-feathered fingertips, toes and nose urge me: find ...