As I lay here, in bed, spoiled as I am, my senses drift into the layers of sweet chirping I hear through the dispersed sounds of traffic passing by. Up and down, the lilting sounds dance, in a cacophony of trills and tweets and long ‘hoos’ that echo the trains’ horns coursing past Main Street.
Oh, the sounds of war, so sweetly sung, posturing and flitting about above their territories, alerting of danger, and also of opportunity. And the sounds of love, twisting in spirals as the females watch and await in the bushes. How can the whole of life’s rhythm be captured in so complete a way as this?
Oh, the beautiful bird song. Oh, how they sing and greet the morning, as do I. How the sound grows, and stretches and pulls at the soul; like the very light of rosy-fingered Dawn, beside His Chariot. The song is life, and life is the song. The birds, they know, for the Lyre lives in them.