When the birds speak
This morning out in my backyard I had coffee listening to the chattering of birds.
They were telling stories about the long winter when they were dreaming of babies. And since the hatchlings came at the end of April, life feels so different... arguments over arguments, long circling flights searching for nourishing food, and fear for their babies being hunted by unscrupulous neighboring creatures.
Long gone are the days when they were singing to the sun at dawn welcoming the warmth of the light on their slender and delicate feathers. All they’re hoping now is to get their young ones ready to fly, and maybe if all goes well before the summer ends they might even do a concert or two.
That's what I've heard them talking about this morning, while I was trying to focus on a more mindful experience reading from my favorite poetry collection.
Too bad that the birds can't read Mary Oliver! They too could be saved from the agony of hovering incessantly over their nests until the season is over. And if the winter doesn't come too fast they might even sing again to the mighty sun who patiently awaits every morning the gift of their return.
I bow to the sun and the birds in deep gratitude for showing me what matters in this moment.