Down in my eastern field the other day I heard a familiar yet out of place birdcall from the top of a tree. I stood there for a moment until I spied a shining yellow breast and then the same sweet trill....it was a meadowlark. She called and called and suddenly from every direction came a few, then many more flashes of yellow and gray and brown as the flock came to light in the bare winter branches. I was so entranced. And then, as suddenly as they had come, they lifted their wings and flew away down the hill to the valley. Only the one bird sang. The rest were silent. Usually meadowlarks answer each other. And they sing and sing and sing.
But it is mid-winter. It is not the time for nest building, or bird song, or twittering wings among the brown and crumpled leaves left over from fall. The sky is blue. Not the blue of fall where light lends it a golden hue and promises rich harvest and cool nights fragrant with smoke, dusted with stars glimmering in the velvet sky. Not the blue of spring time when lazy puffs of white are blown here and there by winds that find their home in the south. Not a balmy blue. And certainly not the hazy blue mixed with heat of the summer sky when the sun blazes and you seek the shelter of the shady grass beneath the green-leafed tree.
This is the true blue of winter matter-of-factness. It says, "Yes. I may seem like a gentle sky. But, take heed. Bundle up in your coat and put your hat on. Because I am serious about bringing you some icy winds and hustle-into-the-warmth-of-home days."
I am paying attention to this winter blue sky. I know that even though spring is just around the corner, we still need to get through the rest of winter. And then we can look for a different blue sky.
