I looked out my bedroom window this morning and saw wet, heavy snowflakes falling to greet their friends that already coated the grass, road, and sidewalk below me with a thin layer of white wetness. The wind shook the branches of the barren trees just outside my window, which I opened for a second to feel the frigid air taunting my hopes for an early spring.
This is just Cleveland in March, and so the story will always go.
A touch despondent over the weather, I walked to my kitchen and began to heat water for my morning coffee. As I scooped the coarse grounds of a Guatemalan blend into my French Press, I heard a sweet sound that had been missing for many months coming from outside the first floor windows: Birds chirping.
I opened the front door and searched for these magical harbingers of better weather but found them nowhere. Their sounds, though, continued to play like a high-pitched symphony to my winter-weary ears. I inhaled the frozen morning, basking in the trump card I held over Mother Nature.
When I exhaled, I smiled. The music of the birds told me that spring and better weather were close. And that’s enough to make my day.