A Winter Morning Song

It's early, the dawn only beginning to dilute the night sky, and there is a bird singing in the tree outside. I suppose there is nothing particularly novel about that, but it is February in Iowa and I haven't heard birds for months. Temperatures have played between single-digits and sub-zero for the better part of a month now, with snow perched on branches more commonly than feathers. It is, though, February 2 -- Groundhog Day. Perhaps the bird is our version of Punxsutawney Phil, though without any precedent I can't guess whether singing predicts an early spring or an extended winter. At this hour of the morning there are certainly no shadows to be seen.

Rather than prognostication, I prefer to hear the bird's singing as encouragement and inspiration. Brittle branches, paralyzing temperatures, and black ice on sidewalks and streets are not the only truths. In the midst of it all is singing -- every now and then; once in awhile; on a random, naked limb -- singing. And suddenly I am too.

Folk singer Peter Mayer, who we will be blessed to host for a concert in June, glimpses the same realization this way:

When winter’s gray is on the sky
Rust upon the leaves that lie
Red on the last few berries clinging
Brown on the branch where the bitter wind’s singing
Even when white obscures the scene
Still, in winter, there is green

Death may raise its voice today
O but life will have its say
Speaking in lovers and in children
In poets pens and philosopher’s visions
Life is a planet’s daring dream
Earth’s devotion, spoken in green

Still, in winter, there is green...
...and a song.