The legendary Cang Jie was said to have invented writing after observing the tracks of birds. A light snow last night, and now the earth falls open to a fresh page. A high wind is breaking up the clouds. Children wait for the yellow bus in a huddle, and under the feeder, some birds are busy writing short stories, poems, and letters to their mothers. A crow is working on an editorial. That chickadee is etching a list, and a robin walks back and forth composing the opening to her autobiography. All so prolific this morning, these expressive little creatures, and each with an alphabet of only two letters. A far cry from me watching in silence behind a window wondering what just frightened them into flight— a dog’s bark, a hawk overhead? or had they simply finished saying whatever it was they had to say?