I woke with a song in me and took that song for a walk. I sang about the cerulean sky dotted with puffs of white. I sang about the catkins draped like fairy lights and lit by the morning sun. I sang about the way spring had sprung, emerging as patches of purple and gold. I sang about the way I felt as I walked, the lift in my chest and the support of my bones. I sang to the alders and sycamore trees, praising their strength and the dance of their limbs. I sang about my love for slow mornings and movement. I noticed the starlings and chickadees chime in. It didn't matter that I lacked a clear tune or that lyrics lacked a set rhythm. It didn't matter that my pitch wasn't perfect. What matters is I was singing.