The deep green woods where we live.
Poised at the rim of the deep green woods, I stand under rain wet leaves. With feet planted in loamy black soil, I listen, mesmerized by the pulsing wall of katydid song that rises and falls in a delirious hymn to life. With big rain drops plopping on my head, I follow the flight of a drab brown wren as she flits from limb to limb, fluting her own bright melody above the katydids’ din, like a homely little prima donna warbling her aria over a raucous chorus.
An audience of one, I linger, puzzling over these everyday miracles: How do a million or more katydids manage to sing as one, rising and falling in unison? Who or what is their conductor? And how is it possible for a wren to sing so loud? The volume of such a tiny creature’s voice, powered by an even tinier set of lungs, is a wonder. And finally, do animals sing solely by instinct, or do they, like me, also sing for joy?
As I stand, rapt, at the edge of the woods, my heart flutters behind the bony cage of my ribs and seemingly soars with the joyful noise emanating from the trees. Surely, I think, this exuberant summer song is nothing less than an ecstatic canticle.
Ah, if only I could compose music like that!
Banging on the garbage can lid, I shriek at the doe, her gait casual and slow, as she high steps through the ravine. Half way down, she stops, turns her head and looks at me.
Fixing her eyes directly on mine, she lifts her snowy white tail and takes a good long pee, as if to say:
"Piss off, old woman! Every tomato, flower, bush and tree you plant on this place belongs to me. Everything here is mine to eat!"
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Be Well and Good Luck,