Dear Miracle

Setting free the beautiful truth inside.

Bel Canto

2 Comments



bird10bI don’t know why, but the singing of birds

in winter always takes me

quite by surprise.

Not so much the noisy prattle, although wonderful,

of migratory northern geese pushing southward,

but the small throated songbirds that stay

for abbreviated cold winter days.

Trillers in lyrical bel canto

compelling me, quite in the middle of anything,

out my front door to listen.

Shivering from bare limbs,

swaying and fluttering in bleak wind when gray

can be wrung from everything—

even me.

 

Long after earth has gone underground for

her Sabbath rest,

a polyphonic coloratura sings,

ecstatic light emitting from delicate vocal chords.

 

These little warblers in joy-filled descant,

sing in psalms and praises to no one

in particular listening—

but me.

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Author: dearmiracle

The hardest thing you will ever do is tell yourself the truth. This is about that. Vulnerability, becoming comfortable with ambiguity and answers that don't always arrive when we think they should. Living in that liminal space, a threshold of not always knowing becomes a sweet spot, a place of opening again and again.

2 thoughts on “Bel Canto

  1. Another fine piece of work and inspiration, A gifted writer such as Shoshana opens our minds and hearts to a deeper awareness of of nature, a celebration of sorts as she pens her stories and allows us to read them.

    Like

  2. After taking ten minutes, still in my pajamas, to go out back, to clean the muddied water from the watering and seed bowls, I felt a sence of peace and harmony with Mother Nature. As I saw the sun peaking through the clouds, I knew this was my chance to get this done. You see, it rained again last night, here in Southern California, creating a mess of the bird feeders. The rain cleaned the rest of my yard, as a little gift to me.. Breathing the clean feshened air, I added new seed to the bowls and birdhouse. I gave the water bowls fresh clear water, and gave my little chirp call to invite the birds to have some lunch. I scurried back inside, before anyone could see me. By the time I reached my kitchen window where I become The Watcher, a front-runner showed up to partake. One solitary blue bird, part of a pair that frequents the seed station. For now he was alone, jumping from seed bowl to water bowl and back. His joy made me smile.

    (Then I found your entry here, and felt a sense of Kismet, and a special feeling of knowing that feeding these wild birds is a very good thing.)

    Like

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