Each morning I open my back door to the city yard. Three great trees are covered with vicious and straggly old vines. Drooping branches look downright dead, yet in April the yellow-green buds miraculously pop out of them.
And there you are, you busybodies.
Chattering each with its own tribal song. Bathing by packs in its puddles.
Frantically selecting dry grass after tiny twig to fly to the mysterious hole in the rotted wood by the upstairs gutter.
Sometimes I can see you, high above, black and proud, head covered as an oil slick in the shimmering purple, and that yellow eye!
You, little browns and yellows and purples, fight like schoolyard children for each little perch on the feeder. Coming as a school group on a field trip in a frenzy, and then swoosh! you are gone. Majestic redhead, Cardinal so noble, picks up after you, watching wary from the grass. Grass, dappled with driveway pebbles, yet somehow birthing violets of whites and purples.
And life and change, adaptations and transformations continue.
So why question it?