Free as a bird...

It shouldn’t be too long now before we see some sign of spring. But for now the trees remain bare, all sticks and starkness, bleak silhouette shadow-plays against these wintry skies.

Trees - they seem to come upon you out of nowhere, like half forgotten thoughts, badly remembered from even more badly remembered dreams – ‘it’s in the trees, it’s in the trees!’ the voice in your head cries out and often it is. But where?

How I hate these winter trees so unsettlingly tall, old, filigreed – pointing me at something that I can’t quite remember, making me oppressed, intimidated, despite the open sky beyond and above - and the crows, I hate the crows almost as much as the trees, perhaps more. Not as birds but for their collective carrion darkness.

As free as a bird they say. Free to be buffeted willy-nilly by wind, starve in winter, mate to the order of spring, free to be at the will of the elements, free to be cruel and have cruelty done to. Is that what freedom is?

It shouldn’t be long now before we see some sign of spring and with it may come freedom.