A dream of goldfinches

American Goldfinch, author unknown 1904
(Wikimedia Commons)

Some days the beauty of the natural world comes on almost like an ache. It is there right in front of me, but too intense, too big to put into words, to capture in a photograph or even to comprehend. The spring weather carries with it the energy of winter still. The air is crisp and cold like a crunchy apple. I want to grab hold of it, freeze the atmosphere like this forever. The branches are bare except for a few buds; the harbor's water glows in the early-morning light. A Red-bellied Woodpecker trills. Titmice call, but I can't see them popping around way up high. Goldfinches whiz and zing and whir. It triggers a memory that tries to run away from me, but I catch it and hold its tail for just a second before it slips from my grasp: a dream I had last night, a dream of goldfinches. There were thousands of them, brilliant yellow and black, flying through a forest. There was someone else in the dream, someone I was talking to about these birds, but I can't remember now. All that remains is the image of the birds flying fast, urgently, silently, between the trunks of great tall trees.