It is about the beads of air waiting under the ice and the smell of newly thawed soil.

It is about homesickness for a kinship that is never absent.

It is about the first vireo who wrapped a reed around a branch and the trust of all of the broods that followed.

It is about resolution being another step in ceaseless motion, the leaf that never touches the ground.

It is about the knowledge innate to these anatomies and the mysteries that will remain as such.

And it is about the artists who have tried to talk about it for centuries.

Myself now included.