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Last night, I was afflicted by the sort of physical exhaustion that typically precedes a migraine attack. I couldn't finish my treadmill workout, and stopped a mere 10 minutes from the end, just as the Kings of Leon were singing about a storm bubbling up from the sea.

How prescient was that group of sex-soaked Southern rockers.

I ended up falling asleep during 30 Rock, just as the attention-seeking Jenna was lamenting that she'd have to share her birthday party with Tracy, trying unsuccesfully to get the focus back on her by donning a back brace and faking injury.

And not surprisingly, I woke several times in the night, the new but familiar pain piercing from my left eye through to the left temple.

When I stumbled downstairs this morning, I took my last Maxalt and popped a Fiorcet and made the coffee with much difficulty.

(Hannah, meanwhile, was rambling excitedly about buying lunch at school today. This will have been only the third time she's done it, mostly because school lunches are entirely devoid of any nutritional substance. The hot dog is bad enough, but it comes with a side of either Pop-Tart or fruit (and guess which most kids choose) and some kind of drink. Most kids choose chocolate milk, but Hannah was going on about how there is a new beverage, simply called 'Orange Drink,' and the 'drink' part of this is truly a clue as to how little good it will do the body ingesting it.

Still, it's only once in a great while, and then we can get back to the peanut butter on brown bread that she likes to complain about. And I love how excited this makes her, a temporary halt in the norm and the promise of sweet junk; the responsibility of carrying those 3 single bills with her, a big girl with money to spend.)

Usually when I have a migraine, I don't have the visual disturbances that can accompany the pain. But I found this morning, looking out the window in the dim morning light, that I couldn't see the host of birds swarming the feeder. If I turned my head all the way, so that both eyes focused, I could see them. But with just my left eye dominant, they were obscured by a white blur.

I like to watch the birds rummage on the winter ground, and conduct their dances around the feeders. The goldfinches are decidedly muted in color now, mostly a soft ochre. We have the sparrows and cardinals, tufted titmouses (titmice?), and the fun nuthatches, walking up and down the side of the dogwood with hurried energy and a strange grace. The other day we saw a red-bellied woodpecker, whose name we didn't believe since its head was the reddest part of its body.

The robins are back now, too, picking the berries out of the holly-type tree we have growing next to our back steps.

In this blurred out vision, with birds that I know are there but can't make out the way I'd like, I can still sense Spring. On the periphery of this white hole, I see the melting snow, the water seeping into the ground and making a muddy mess perfect for the girls to stomp through in their rain boots. It's white surrounded by white.

It takes 15 minutes for the medicine to kick in, to kill the pain that was previously killing me. Whether it lasts or not is unknown, but I am grateful for the reprieve.

As we walk to the car to bring Hannah to school, she is still excited about her upcoming lunch purchase. She skips excitedly out to the car, yelling "I love the way Spring smells!"

She is infectious. My enthusiasm for the day, though muted by medication and a desire to sleep, gets a bit bigger just by being near her.

When we pass, the birds take off from their perches, waiting for us to disappear before they return to feast again.