In the morning I walk in my pajamas to the perimeter of the woods.
No one hears these birds but me. Singing. Calling.
I stand still. Take it in. My birds. God's birds.
Remember the notes and trills. Stay this moment. Remember.
In the evening I walk the path to the creek. Down hill through the
weeds and poison ivy. Canopy overhead. Fewer songs.
Trees whisper. Squirrels still. I try to hear the deer.
Remember the forest sounds at end of day. Breathe it.
Remember.
At night I sit on the porch. Frog calls at the creek give a bass note to the quiet. Cicadas sing.
The owl may hunt tonight. She'll wake me. I'll know when she eats.
Too soft the passing of time. Too short to waste this glory. Remember.
In the dark I rest inside. I hear what I am tuned to hear. The folds of sleepy air
curl around and rock all but the night hunters. I hear the owl, then nothing.
No one hears these birds but me. Singing. Calling.
I stand still. Take it in. My birds. God's birds.
Remember the notes and trills. Stay this moment. Remember.
In the evening I walk the path to the creek. Down hill through the
weeds and poison ivy. Canopy overhead. Fewer songs.
Trees whisper. Squirrels still. I try to hear the deer.
Remember the forest sounds at end of day. Breathe it.
Remember.
At night I sit on the porch. Frog calls at the creek give a bass note to the quiet. Cicadas sing.
The owl may hunt tonight. She'll wake me. I'll know when she eats.
Too soft the passing of time. Too short to waste this glory. Remember.
In the dark I rest inside. I hear what I am tuned to hear. The folds of sleepy air
curl around and rock all but the night hunters. I hear the owl, then nothing.
By Janice A. Farringer
1 comment:
Janice A. Farringer is a writer and poet living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She has
numerous book reviews, interviews and articles online as well as in print. To find out more
visit her website AmidLifeBooksandPoetry.com.
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