some mornings you awake to birds chirping, repetitive announcements of nothing but their presence, their aliveness, crisp through a blanketed world, still and careful, as if the night had sharpened our eyes while softening the edges of our grass, our roads, our buildings
and some mornings, there is a strange urgency to fit ourselves to the body beside us, to imprint the heavy warmth into our own curves, these mornings, the decade-old patience in the hands of our parents as they pass us the eggs is clear, and we know it will be a memory that will return in quiet hours,
these mornings, we tread softer, speak slower, look up more, and we hear the wisdom of the birds as they wake, they are perched on branches, they are feeding their young, they are washing their feathers in the drizzle, they are looking at the world washed anew, without wanting, without needing,