"Blackbird, blessed feather and ink of sky-stories unsung, we pray you rest well in green clothed branches and allow your heart free-song."
The blackbird alights, black plumage soaking up the sunshine.
The blackbird sings a song as old as time, a melody that sparks joy in nature's onward soul.
There is a dance of joy, an inborn sacred spark, within the blackbird.
The blackbird searches for worms in the newly warmed soils of my spring garden. In a few spry glances he checks that the coast is clear, then he goes to work on finding his meal. He is as the most marvellous of clockwork toys, only infinitely better.
A female blackbird hops on the newly defrosted grass, her deep brown legs matching the soil below. She has feathers the colour of every tree, of every wisp of wood that promises life to come. There is something in the way she moves, a joy, as she relishes the season change. The air is cool, but she can feel the promise of warmth within.