It’s snowing big fluffy flakes and the air is soft.
For the past several days on my walks to and from work I have seen a mockingbird perched in a holly hedge, feathers fluffed against the cold, singing quiet little songs. It doesn’t move when I walk by. Even as I slow down and gaze at it the bird just cocks its head, looks at me from one eye and sings a little more. It seems too early for nesting, but who can say?
I am nesting too, I want to say, pointing to my belly in my silly human way, thinking that the world, even avian, must be interested in my affairs. But the bird doesn’t care as long as I don’t get too close, and I am glad of it and walk on.

O Charlottesville! I knew it when I parked there for years in the early-mid 90s. And now confirmation at last.

Lord, this blog is out of date. Thanks for the prompt from Crazytown to get busy. But what to say? I am 12 weeks pregnant. A dear friend lost his partner recently and we’ve talked together a bit about the rushing train sensation (help, I can’t get off) at both the start of life and its end.
I wrote a little note to my body’s new occupant today:
I left the house thick in coat, hat, scarf, gloves, with pack and clutching my thermos of tea. Bright air crisped my cheeks and birds sang their cold-songs in the trees along the sidewalks. But you spin like a fish in the warm dark of my body, roomy still, and dreams flicker past your open eyes.