Spring is coming to Southern California. I can tell because Herald, the mockingbird who owns our hill, spends mornings perched in his newly-leaved ficus, singing his heart out and turning cartwheels.
Mockingbirds’ tasks seem divided in a sexist way. The new Mrs. is busy with more practical things—like eating—a few branches below. They probably have a needy nest somewhere, but again this year, it hides from me.
Some days I am like the Mrs. Just wanting to get things done. Other days, I am like Herald. Singing away mediocrity.