The Heart and Soul of the Matter

Emilie Dickinson said:

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

Emilie Dickinson didn't live to see this Winter.

One moment, the sun shines, the earth warms, the air broadens with scent, then BAM!, a two-fisted punch of cold and snow smacks down whatever small, perched winged thing might have fluttered in my soul. In my case, it's probably a beetle.

My heart isn't the only thing taking a beating these days.

Two days ago, a tiny, Chipping Sparrow hit our sliding glass door, then dropped like a stone onto the deck. For almost an hour, its stillness rendered it immobile - a freeze-frame bird still life.

The snow fell.
Then rain fell.
Then, wind blew.

And, like this Winter's penchant for adding insult to injury, a sharp-shinned hawk set up shop nearby.

Did the sparrow know?
Did she care?

As her feathers iced over and she huddled in the cold, what fluttered in her heart? Did she think, "Let it end here. The hawk can have me. Winter can have me."

I huddled, too, shielding my fragile flutter of hope for her. When she finally roused from her stupor and flew away, I vowed that Winter can't have me, either - not my heart and definitely not my soul.