Convergences. Sticky-sweet. You have been forewarned.

Today I wept for beauty for the first time in three years.

Hundreds and hundreds of cedar waxwings, little tiny chirping birds. You know how they go crazy in midwinter and dive-bomb the trees. Just as I walk down the high level bridge and the view opens up, the first orchestral surge of "Wake Up" by the Arcade Fire washes over me. A gust of 60 km/h north wind hits me full in the face, and these birds come soaring over top of the bridge. Waves and waves of birds, flying with all their strength straight into this wind, pushing up over the bridge and then zooming down to the trees on the other side. I counted five, six, nine surges of these birds, a hundred per flock, as they rose and fell over my head in time with the music.

I was thankful for my scarf and fur-edged hood. I pulled them up and allowed myself to weep, to soften my spine and fall into the wind. If I had let go just a little more, one of those gusts would have picked me up and battered me into unconsciousness on the rusted-out supports of the bridge. How I wish I had: it would have been a release sweeter and more complete than orgasm.