Such Singing in the Wild Branches
finally I heard him
the first leaves -
I saw him clutching the limb
an island of shade
his red-brown feathers
trim and neat for the new year.
I stood still
thought of nothing.
I began to listen.
I was filled with gladness -
that's when it happened,
I seemed to float,
be, myself, a wing or a tree -
I began to understand
the bird was saying,
the sands in the glass
a pure white moment
gravity sprinkled upward
became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing -
was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
also the trees around them,
well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
the perfectly blue sky - all, all of them
of course, yes, so it seemed,
soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
more than a few moments.
one of those magical places wise people
to talk about.
of the things they say about it, that is true,
that, once you've been there,
everyone has a chance.
it spring, is it morning?
there trees near you,
does your own soul need comforting?
then - open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
already be drifting away.
The Wood Thrush of North America has a song some
describe as hauntingly beautiful. As a child I walked frequently alone in the
woods and though this bird sang just for me.
Whenever family confusion got stirred up on our home and my soul needed
comforting, to the woods I went to hear a reprieve. I'd enter the doorway of trees with heavy
feet and after a walk singing I'd leave the woods flying. The song of a bird tells us all that we all have
a chance for liberation, even the most tortured, even the torturers. Within the deepest recesses of the fractured
human dilemma of competition versus collaboration, and care versus harm, we are
hauntingly beautiful. May you hear such
a song of freedom today.
If you could give yourself a new chance
today, what would it be?