Mild

Frostless blue sky out the window this morning and tits singing from the eaves with the casual glee of a beaked 1oz puff of feathers in a sudden world where everything birdie-good isn't covered with snow. A pigeon on the chimney across the Hof turns around and around and around, puffed like a Columbid helium balloon, check it, bitches, dove in the sun, woohoo! woohoo!

My hands are cold on my melamine desktop and I drink coffee and write emails and check out winter telly premieres and look at shots of my nieces on facebook as the distant spring sends me a postcard from its softer, warmer place of promises and second chances.