Eyes pointed at the sky. Melody clear and perfect settled on the roof. Tiny voice filling the air. Delicate hollow bones balancing on the weathervane. Seems decades ago we discovered the wrought iron fixture at the flea market; a creaky dive with discarded toys, Post-Depression tools and miles of missing teeth. We anchored the wind reader, with its proud patina horse, to the garage peak. There, our valiant filly galloped through the atmosphere till her strong legs could no longer outrun the wind. Somehow, the compass remained intact.
On the dull backdrop of another chilly overcast day, my little bird friend has chosen one metal branch above the others. As I listen to sunrise songs floating down to the driveway, I assign new meaning to the weathervane. S for Sun—for you, the warmth in our lives no matter the weather.