This morning is the first time I’ve heard a bird in the light of dawn for at least several weeks. Rain and clouds have kept things dreary for weeks, to the point where it seems strange to see a clear blue sky behind the dark oak branches of winter.
One brave bird was out about 7:30 this morning, proclaiming his territory and doing whaever it is that birds do. Just the one bird was what I could hear inside in the silence of early morning in my house. It was encouraging and cheerful to hear as I ate breakfast and looked out my office window at the coming dawn.
I’m planning to spend most of the day writing, proclaiming my territory and finding the breadcrumbs of my story as they are scattered in the fairy tale forest. Even if the birds of memory have eaten them, I can follow the birds. Metaphors are wonderful in that, at least in fairy tales, they don’t have to be logical in the sense of scientific and rational.
The rules of a fantasy world must make sense internally, and the people have to be reasonably motivated, but the irrationality of the story–the narrativium as Terry Pratchett calls it–brings the magical and the realism together, or to quote Edna St. Vincent Millet: “imaginary gardens with real frogs in them.”
The sun in shining on me now, as it does only in the winter months between the bare tree branches, warming me and making my monitor nearly unreadable. But the sunshine feels good. Maybe I’ll start with Maven lying in the sun, as cats are wont to do, biding her time for an unwary bird, or maybe just listening to the birds gossip.