What can I say? It’s the man’s birthday. And I’ve loved his music since I was a young teen. And one time not too long ago he and I made eye contact.
This morning started off at 2ºF, but the sun’s brilliant out there and the bird feeder outside my desk window is bristling with a pair of Pine Siskins, a handful of yelllowing American Goldfinches, an embarrassment of Black-Capped Chickadees, a scattering of Tufted Titmice, and a single Downy Woodpecker.
I’m distracted by everything and anything today. By shiny things. Things with wings. Prints in the snow. Reddening buds on the lilac bushes. Something’s happening.
The geese haven’t made their comeback, but can’t you just feel they’re on their way? Winter coats and mittens are still required, but the light is distinctly softer, less oblique.
Something long frozen is shattering.
It’s a good day to be alive. Especially when Nick Lowe is singing.