The day beckons.
The sycamores are dancing in the sunrise. Each leaf shimmies against a gray-blue sky, clustered in bough groups that bob in time to the wind's cue, then bow to their neighbor in a second tree. I can hear them murmur, but the music in my head is too loud and I can't make out what the leaves are saying. I might ask the birds to relay the message of the trees, but I hesitate to interrupt them.
The goldfinches are in their shadow plumage now. Just a few weeks ago they were bright yellow sun specks bickering and jostling for space on the feeder. Now they match the black thistle seed, and they feed silently.
Parenthood makes us careful with ourselves. Human parents buckle our seatbelts and have our blood pressure checked. Goldfinch parents put on their camouflage and whisper in the bushes.
Who will raise our babies if the hawk eats us?