A Morning Ritual

The bird balanced delicately on the barb wire fence, his clawed feet holding him in place as delicately as a lover’s embrace. He sang as if his heart would burst, regardless of snow or cold or even his own drab brown color. A mouse had been by sometime in the night. Its tiny footprints were imprinted in the snow near the fence. Brian only hoped there were no owls floating about that night.


He looked around again, and sighed. Then he made his way to the barn, slowly and painfully. He used to care for such things. But now…now it seemed silly. Besides, he had something to do other than stare at mouse tracks. He made his way to the back of the barn, and looked around as though he lost something. Then, with a grunt, he bent down, and placed the flowers on the small mount in the snow. A small stone rested there. It read “Rose Edgewood, 1910-2008”.

“It ain’t apple, but ya know they ain’t n bloom yet, Rosy.” He grumbled, straightening up again and shoving his hands in his pockets. “But I guessed what with the season and all, that holly’ll make you happy nough. Christmas was right nice, with the kids coming in and all. Mary is specting in the spring. And John’s thinking of coming back to help with things.”

He spend ten more minutes talking to his wife. Then he went to do the chores, with a lighter step and a hopeful look in his eye. His morning ritual was over, and his day went on. Mouse tracks and bird’s songs did have a place in his day again.


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