Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Naturalists' Trance

Perhaps contained within birdsong are clues to events surrounding us. Here is water. Here are berries, the cold morning-stilled flies. Here is a passing airplane, the sound of frogs, a gust of wind. All are reflected in the chorus of the birds we hear, released from the perimeter of the approaching day with the crispness of sunshine.

Maybe with backs to the rising sun we raise our hands, spreading fingers wide. Much as words are anchored to the shapes of our shadows, colorful tints of inner singing rise high along the bright wing of this early hour, dissolving broad streaks of purple into yellow and pink; the blue of each thin, sweet note emerging from the grass further refining the brilliance of our love for the sky.


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