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Danté Stewart

Identity

In praise of morning birds

Every morning, when the windows of my house are raised, I remember how much of a gift it is to be alive together.

Photo by Mark Olsen on Unsplash
gray and white bird on tree branch during daytime

On the day I heard my grandmother laugh so deep and so precious it made my stomach quake, I am sitting on the edge of my wooden kitchen table, staring out the window as the sun beats against the seals. The morning is hot, a bit of the southern stuffiness that happens in Georgia during the summer months, and the wind blows pages out of order as they sit on the table. Just a few moments ago, I am pouring my coffee into my dinner mug, setting it on the table, raising the windows a bit so that the warm breeze can enter my house. Ten minutes later, the red mug that I got from the bookstore some months ago is empty, the contents of the cup have warmed my insides. I close my ends. I take three long, deep breaths in. I take three long, deep breaths out.

And I hear the sound of morning birds.

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