Only the Birds

In the mountains again. It is late morning, unless you would call it afternoon, in which case I would ask you to hand me my mimosa and let me live my life.

  All is essentially silent except for the birds, stretching their vocals for an early spring. I am kept company by two woodpeckers, one of whom is fairly inept at a what I imagine to be his only job. The other, in turn, seems to be a mighty show off. 

I can hear chipmunks cracking the hopes of seeds who only wanted to grow tall, or wide. Or beautiful.

The peaks in the distance still hold snow in their arms- a passive aggressive reminder that these tree limbs, pregnant with green buds, are still fragile and at the fickle mercy of the Rocky Mountain May.  The wind blows the cold like an exclamation point just in case you had been careless enough to forget. 

Perhaps the only way to be here is alone, if for no other reason than to listen to the birds. Only the birds.