Slow laps around the house each day with my mom, just-turned-eighty, trying to help her stay mobile. The bluebirds like to hang out in the snowball bush on the southeast corner and watch us pass … twice. All winter long we look for them. They aren’t always there. Some days, mid the skeletal branches, a pop of blue or two hop from limb to limb. I sometimes wonder why they frequent this particular bush, turning this little chore into a little joy. Do you think they know?