Living Rooms

It is the first real Saturday of spring.

The air is cool; it rained last night.  

Beads of water cling to the lines of the bistro lights, 

Like impossibly small pearls on a necklace.

Dear God, beautiful.

The birds have so much to say.  

They sing from every direction around me.

I drink my coffee in an aviary.

Sing, little birds.

I read this week that baby birds are born with the ability to chirp,

But they don’t usually sing until springtime,

When they hear the other birds start singing.

I put up the red umbrella.

Not the big one that declares spring has definitely arrived,

But the little one that says spring is here for at least a few minutes.

The breeze is spinning it like a parasol.

A squirrel skitters across the back fence.

He pauses to scratch an itch – with his back leg, no less,

Never toppling off the balance beam.

Winter exposed the bird nests high in the trees.

I can see where they made their living rooms last year.

I wonder if the birds return to their same trees, 

to assess the value of their springtime homes.

I wonder if they make little to-do lists of repairs and supplies.