Jubilant are the robins' songs
in the dark
before the dawn,
greeting the day from as far away as I can hear,
waves of music drifting through the sleepy landscape,
as if every robin in the world were singing.
Suddenly,
as if the conductor has lowered his baton,
some mysterious cue quiets them and,
as their song subsides,
their attention turns to
matters of survival.
And nest building.
The towhees are back,
and the thrashers,
and the chipping sparrows,
all self-importantly announcing their arrival amid
the melodies of white-throats and titmice,
Carolina wrens and both chickadees,
cardinals and a downy woodpecker,
a cacophony of sound,
like an orchestra tuning up,
voices almost
indistinguishable.
How can a person think with all this noise?
Perhaps that is just the point.
What if all the busy humans stopped,
and listened,
and accepted this moment,
and its invitation
to noticing,
to reverence,
to caring,
to stillness
at the opening of this day?
