The sky is puffed grey, pregnant with the possibility of snowfall.

On my walk, all around me, there is a sense of pause, of waiting.

The dogs in the yards are silent, waiting for me to pass.

Neighbors venture out, stepping carefully to avoid the slippery rime that has coated the black places on the road.

They wait for the forecast and the possibility of time off from work.

The children wait with their sleds, as they practice on the dry, grassy hill.

Even the birds are silent, waiting for the storm to pass.

And when I look up at the sky there is a blankness, with no mood or transience. Only a dull sameness.

The grey threatens to blanket my mood, too.

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When my son was home, over the holidays, we went for a walk on a trail in Hillsborough. We were casually birdwatching and he showed me an app on his phone that helps identify bird species by their calls.

This particular day, there was a cacophony of birdsong – it was so loud I couldn’t differentiate a single bird. But that was the beauty of it – the phone could pick out one solo voice and identify it.

It was a dream for me, a person who gets overwhelmed with sounds. But I came away thinking of all the individual species that cross our ears, that we never identify. They are everywhere, thousands of varieties.

I think about this on my walk today, how easy and even necessary it is to sometimes block out the beautiful things in life. How easy it is to succumb to the vast grey, when there is something beautiful that can’t be heard.

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For me, January is a month of waiting.

Waiting for the year’s schedule to flesh out.

Waiting to plant a garden, after the ice clears.

Waiting for the start of a home renovation.

Waiting for positivity and purpose.

Waiting in anticipation of what new things I can create this year. I don’t want to stagnate, I want to keep creating – to keep writing.

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Life is about waiting, it just is.

And somewhere between the question and the answer is everyday life. As grey and dull and unremarkable as today, sometimes.

But today, it doesn’t bother me so much. I can pull the one birdsong from the sky.

I feel hope.

And now heading home, I am careful of the black ice on the sidewalk that could easily upend me.

A bird titters loudly in the frozen branches. I can’t see it, but it is so clear, so dissonant, that it pierces my thoughts.

The sky has darkened, and still the mood comes back to me, like a birdsong:

What will be? What will be? What will be?