I think that at least for now, the construction work on the street is done. It was incredibly noisy, but I did find it interesting to watch the workers. Despite the heavy machinery that was needed to rip the street and bring new materials in, the men and women worked neatly. At the end of the day, backhoes and other equipment were parked tidily, the no parking signs were placed on the strip between the street and the sidewalk, and the remaining pavement was swept. Quiet surfaced once more. I do wonder how the workers endure such noise on a regular basis.
Yet, as of yesterday, I still was hearing no birds, and was worried they might not return. Even the mockingbird, who had recently worked so diligently from dawn to dusk to work on his repertoire that was embellished with flying leaps high into the air that showed his fine wingspan, was not to be seen or heard. Not even a crow's caw. Worrisome, and a bit lonely. Yet, I stepped out this morning, and heard a tree full of waxwings (I think) who had much to say. I let their chattiness wash over me.
We are all better off when we can hear the birds chatter and sing and simply go about being birds.
This poem I read in our meditation group on Wednesday. Meditation is certainly a lesson in learning the luxurious spaciousness of the seemingly scanty enough.
Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.
Then, by the end of morning,
he's gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.
Mary Oliver
First Sip
photograph: San Leandro, May 2021. I am always grateful when I can hear the bees in flight.
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