You never forget a bird call once you’ve watched it make the sound,
small beak parted in song.
And so you sit, waiting,
Listening to the distant water, and the whoosh of passing cars,
to the spiders in the underbrush and the wind, whispered through the trees.
And with vision soft like while dreaming, movement catches the corner of your eye,
the flash of red feathers, or blue,
or yellow perhaps, or black.
And you marvel at the quick movements and sure feet
of such a small creature.
And you watch as it breathes deeply, small breast filling with air,
and notes, clear and pure like crystal springs spill out
over all the rocks, and trees, and water, and ground,
so that even the deer stops her quiet wandering and looks up to see,
ears cupped and pointed.
And the notes remind you of a time
long, long ago,
when the world was whole.
And you want that again,
So each day you sit,
until you are part of things again,
and everything starts to make sense.
And you know the song by heart.
Thank you for listening,