Yesterday, I didn’t want to get out of bed. On my phone, the temperature registered a bracing 7F (-14C) when my feet finally touched the floor. My lack of enthusiasm stemmed from the prior evening’s image of the streetlight illuminating falling snow outside my window. That meant I needed to shovel the driveway. Punxsutawney Phil’s forecast for six more weeks of winter seemed accurate. After exhausting my list of excuses, my phone displayed a balmy 12F (-11C). There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I set to work.
Shoveling snow demands physical exertion and almost no brain power, so I allowed my mind to wander. I had almost finished my task when a bird call caught my attention. I didn’t believe my ears and dismissed it in favor of completing my job and getting inside where it was warmer. The bird called again. “It can’t be,” I thought as I continued with my mission. But the third call got my attention. I stopped my work and began searching for the singer. High in my neighbor’s locust tree sat a harbinger of Spring—a robin.
“What are you doing here? You’re too early. Spring isn’t here yet.” I told the robin, and he cocked his head in my direction. He chirped, flitted among the branches, and sang to me again as if to say he knew what he was doing, and Spring was close upon his tail.
“Are you saying Punxsutawney Phil doesn’t know what he is talking about?”
He titled his head, sang his lovely song, and then he flew north. I think I will trust my new friend’s opinion.
Did you write yesterday? Are you writing today?
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer