First thing in the morning, I step outside to let the dog out. Steam billows from my breath and crispy white sheets crunch under my boots. A soothing song greets me from high above. Wait, what? There’s a bird singing? I can’t remember the last time I heard a bird sing. The branches are still bear and the ground is blanketed in white. Birds don’t sing in the winter. Am I dreaming?
I blink upwards, then squint to focus between the spiny sticks. Something flitters.