Just now, I heard the familiar sound of Trumpeter swans and looked to the window to see them through the skeleton arms of neighboring trees. l could see the black lines of their feet, and the scalloped outline of their flight feathers. The expanse of their wings.
I looked in earnest for more. There were only two. Their streamlined bodies stretching against the frosty morning.
They are a sure sign of spring.
I noticed how dirty my windows were, after months and months of neglect. And immediate thought was, I should never have windows this dirty.
The voice that lives inside my head is not my own. It was put there by generations who believed that clean windows were more important than swans. More important than the affection for them. More important than living.
I said back to the voice:
It’s not the dirty windows, it’s actually having them.
It’s not the dirty windows, it’s the eyes to see.
It’s not the dirty windows, it’s the sound of Trumpeters.
It’s not the dirty windows, it’s the swelling of my heart.
It’s not the dirty windows. I’m free.
