The Magpie

It was 2 degrees Celsius and sunny this morning. The car was frozen, its windows painted in ice. The boys ran out of the house and they could not resist touching the grass. Frosty and stiff. Sparkling.

“Mom, look!” Beautiful. Crispness is to be appreciated. Everything seems cleaner when the air is crisp like this.

We drive half way and walk the rest. The sun clings to our backs as if saying “see, it’s not so bad…” What if the sun did not rise in the morning, I ask? We’d be dead, the answer comes short and unequivocal. True. So be grateful.

“Shhh, what is that?”

Sasha points to the globe of golden leaves in a tree we’re passing by. A magpie. Making some croaking sounds I have never heard before and looking at us. We stop and look.

Camera? No. In an attempt to be present with the boys during our walks, I am now leaving the electronic butler at home. But no magpie?

Yes, lots of it. More even, with no camera preoccupation, I am right there with the boys. We are quiet, listening to the sounds of the morning, admiring the magpie and its gracious flying low to the ground before perching on a branch in the next golden globe of leaves.

I can hear it all. The boys whispers, the magpie wing flutter, the noises it makes and the leaves we ruffle with our shoes as we say goodbye to it. No camera can capture that.

On my way back, I think of it all. Like carrying a handful of precious water from the brook to the thirsty, I carry the magpie thoughts home and place them here. A keeper of memories, a reminder for those who read, an invitation…

The air is still crisp and the hills to the south have a big cloud plopped on top like a big woolly hat. The cold air accentuates the softness. This will not last… Quiet.

Good morning.