I have become reconciled to Spring. Even though it puts the soft chills of Autumn and Winter to flight, I do not resent that pastel-colored season. If Summer is a lazy voluptuous woman, immobile in her thick and fragrant bower, then Spring is blithe and slim: as changeable as sunlight under water, breaking into watery prisms, impossible to count.
Spring is busy. Nature's offspring are born during that verdant time, when the earth becomes lush again and the air is blue and spinning.
During these months, birds become loud, reckless and bold. Where I live, real estate is at a minimum, and the days are strident with their arguments. Gables, street signs, garages, rooftops – all are populated with perfect creatures that maneuver through the air with a mathematical ascendancy.
Their songs pierce the sunlight until the golden fabric becomes a pattern of their febrile joy.
When I walk to work, I always pass by a row of decorative shrubs: prickly, tropical and dense. Once, I heard in their sultry depths the plaintive pwee-pwee of a newborn bird – too childish to realize the danger of its voice. I stopped, hoping I could discern where the nest was. It was then that I saw a peculiar machine perched on top of the shrubbery. It was a mockingbird, rising its wings up and down like an automaton, a heraldic toy.
It was trying to make itself as intimidating as possible. But despite this whimsical masquerade, I moved closer. It was the sight of its needle-like beak, ready to embroider the skin of any intruder, that finally gave me pause. I spoke a few calming words, all the while waiting for the gasp of wings: the impatient breath in my ear should I not be retreating quickly enough.
I have often thought about the words I spoke to that angry parent. Mockingbirds are famous mimics, and I imagined this bird measuring my voice, analyzing its tonal equations. And I hope to hear it again one day, coming back from its green, concealed places or floating down to me from the sky.