Snow turned into rain at precisely 8:22 a.m. in Brooklyn. Like my swinging moods, the rise of twilight switched from joyous flakes to damp downfalls in a matter of seconds. It seemed over my first cup of coffee, while watching blue birds dance from fence to limb in the falling snow, that today’s storm would signal a change to my barren circumstance. Now there is rain. Despite the slush, I will ignore the pale outlook of today, impending economic doom, and spend these daylight hours grateful for what few moments of brightness flash my way.
The ancient grapevine from a neighbor’s backyard still reaches through the chain-link fence into this lot. It is odd that grapes still form on that vine in summer. Too little to eat, yet as purple as my heart, they return every year.
Snow gathered on the twisting vine like hopeless thoughts clinging to a battered mind. The brown, peeling bark of the grapevine can be seen from a far distance. The leafless branch contrasts the landscape like my soul to this frozen tundra of uncertainty.
It is only on mornings like today that one notices the unpruned vine that was planted generations ago, when cultivating such fruits in the city seemed practical. It curves again from my yard, growing like a bad weed up a fallen telephone pole, and reaches back to the neighbor’s land, over the top of the fence, like the prodical crop returning to the father.
The black curtain over the bedroom window is drawn despite depression’s draft. A stone and metal wind chime moves in the rain, yet, like writers of winter’s song, the chime remains unstruck in stillness.
Not even cat prints mark this new fallen snow.
The rain, like a restless sleeper, wrinkles the fresh white sheet.
The bird feeder is empty again. The blue birds sit but do not sing outside my window. They are waiting perhaps for me to refill a black feeder with black sunflower seeds again.
The squirrels are so greedy. So much of the feeder seed is under the snow now. Little brown birds wait for me too.
I’ll be there as soon as the rain ends, little birds. I’ll be there.