“Hope” is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
If hope is, indeed, the thing with feathers, what do winter bird blobs represent? Are they hope, amassed, ready to serve where they are most needed? Or are they all the bits and pieces of lost hope, destined to swirl in synchronous flight, breaking apart, coming together, landing on lines, swarming on crabapple trees, pooping on cars, and frightening the ornithophobic?
Or are they just a blob of starlings on the soccer field at my school?
EDITED TO ADD (thanks, Blythe): Ultimate bird blob video -- you MUST watch this!
Laura Salas has the roundup today at Writing the World for Kids.