Birdsong Was Never So Sweet
Today is the day to listen. Tomorrow is, too.
My morning rush of tea and breakfast and morning pages and plans is pierced By unrepentant, exuberant trills of the song outside my kitchen window From the bush that I meant to prune to the ground, but left it too late, Meaning there is birdsong summoning light, banishing night.
Has the birdsong been there all along and I was so focused I didn’t notice? My oblivious did not stop the bird from the daring song in tentative light — My breathless attention at its sweet perfection does not make a difference. The bird sings the song that it must sing from its heart into the world.
All the playlists, the well-curated and carefully arranged instrumentals Do not capture the exhilarating invitation to pause, to listen, to blaze My own song onto the page, into the obedient laptop in clumsy words That will never capture the fluid grace of a bird calling to the new day.
You don’t have to work hard to hear it.
Pause your busy and listen.
