Early spring and the woods are alive with bird song.
Even before sunrise they begin.
Volume and variety increasing
with each passing moment
until it is impossible to distinguish
between the multitude of calls and songs.
And yet, they are harmonious.
Somehow, between the hoots and caws;
the sweet little tunes and the raucous screeching,
even the rusty gate utterings of herons
and the bossy pitch of blackbirds,
not one sounds out of place
or dissonant with another.
How can that be?
How can this cacophony of love songs and territory disputes
blend into an enchanting chorus
that soothes and dare I say heals
the discordant din of my own meanderings?
It’s not about ‘how.’
It’s about apprenticing ourselves
to the natural world.
Finding wisdom in the counsel of feather and wing,
and hope in the harmony of their Wild song.
