Robin
When we first step outside, I ask Jones what the morning feels like.
It feels light, daddy!
And this is how all his days begins. Everything light. Innocent and unencumbered, he arrives happily into the day, the world immediately swirling all around him. He drops a leaf into a flower pot filled with rain water and marvels as it vanishes and then reappears, bobbing on the surface.
He rubs his body against the prickly, green of a hedge, calls to a cat watching from across the street. The moss on the trees we pass, like something of the night lingering into day, and Jones trailing his hand over it.
Look daddy, this tree has hair!
And then a robin pecking at the wet earth before us. I tell Jones it’s a good sign, that it’s spring and everything is waking up. Jones wants us to take tiny steps, like the robin, and so we do. On our tiptoes, we stutter-step along. The bird then takes flight and Jones pursues him, running ahead and flapping his arms like a bird, and it seems probable that he, too, will break loose from gravity and take to the sky, a vivid bolt of lighting illuminating all beneath.
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