Sugarbird. It is eight below zero today. The sun a white orb in the pale blue sky. It is only light. There is no heat to anything today. My oldest son is home from college. He woke up early, like me, and stood in the kitchen on top of the heating vent, a mug of coffee in his hands. When he was little, he used to stand there too. I am glad something don’t change. Like the sugarbirds (or name for the common sparrow, for they will eat anything and love a paper package of sugar). They are here, flitting from the back porch arbor to the lilacs to the branches of the Euonymus I transplanted from my mother-in-law’s garden. Carried it on the plane in a New York Times blue plastic bag, back when you could carry on a small bush, back when it was small enough to fit in the overhead bin. The bush, like the boy, have grown bigger. But I know them, just the same.