The day had begun without me. I lay in bed postponing the inevitable moment when I would have to leave its warm snuggliness. The air in my room was cold which probaly meant there was a frost outside.

Just as I was about to throw the layers of bed covers back and race out to the lounge where the logfire was still burning I heard a blackbird singing. And what a sound it was. It was like that bird was singing for its life. It was a no holds barred, full throated, lusty song straight from the heart. The sound trilled from the pit of its being in wanton, unashamed zeal.

I lay there listening caught up in the exuberance and extravagance of the song, wondering why I was moping about in bed, reluctant to face the world. So I got up.

Later when I went outside I noticed it had been snowing. It was bitterly cold yet the blackbird clad only in its feather suit had braved the weather to sing the same song it sang every day with the same gusto.

Why? Why did that bird sing? And for whom?

And what would happen if I approached each day with a song so exuberant I had to sing it loudly or burst?