A couple of days ago, as I was washing the dishes in our kitchen sink, birds started flocking to our backyard. I could see them from the window, hopping from one spot to another, pecking the solid ground for a crumb, until they finally found their treasure: A giant basket of grain bread.
It just so happened that day we had some leftover bread that hardened over time so mom dunked it in water to make it softer and laid it outside, hoping the birds would fill their tiny bellies with it, and that they did. I was already finished with the dishes but I kept watching, smiling unbeknown to myself.
I never liked the idea of owning birds and caging them in your house. Birds were the symbol of freedom, and taking that away strips them of their nature. They’re meant to fly, always high up in the sky, always chasing the next desire, always moving. But there they were, different species and different built, just a couple centimeters away from reach, nibbling with their sharp beaks and eating to their heart’s content. That short moment, unrelated to my being, removed entirely from my existence, made me fall in love a little more with life. Nature is beautiful with its vivacity, but it’s even more beautiful when you least expect it, like seeing a small kitten on the street running from passersby to the safety of its mother’s embrace, or an estranged dog walking alongside you in the park like an old friend, or a bee going from one flower to another on a sunny spring day, buzzing with excitement to perform its duties.
Such small joys from such simple things. I store them all inside, and let them culminate until my heart expands and grows big, so I can give it back as gently as I have received it.
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The winter drifter 
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