Wednesday, April 18, 2007
I wish I could name the birds as they spell out their songs. A fluted, chiming symphony of half familiar notes. A trill, a chirruped melody from green and rain-drenched leaves, a brushed percussion coo half-hidden in soft and drifting air. They talk to one other as the mauve light fades. Then, washes back, gold this time. Their voices lift, remark, keep time. Birdsong marks out a mellow soundtrack to my busy life. I have to stop. Awhile. I have to pause to listen. Then, it comes again. Sweeter for the silence that went before.