bird song

This year, I've really gotten to see the finches go from their winter to spring feathers. The males get yellower and yellower, regular gangs of eight to ten jostling for position at the thistle feeder. Blue jays and chickadees too, the chickadees with their new spring call. Robins on the grass with plump poetic redbreasts. Sparrows too, and even an Eastern Phoebe wagging its tail from a distance. It's still early spring, as everything knows, despite the ridiculous heat wave a week ago. Serviceberry trees are about to blossom, the vibrant red fringe of red maples is covering the hillsides - look, it won't last for long! It's still early, early spring, and raining now. Good for my radishes if they weren't frozen by the cold snap.

The tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden is the skill, the compliment, called imitation. It's our downfall, perhaps, but also our game of praise, a beautiful thing. We may imitate - and innovate - our way to oblivion. Or, our oblivion has nothing to do with anything we do. But surely our songs and dances will live on, hoboing their way across the universe, potent crystallizations of vibration infused with intention - and will be heard as the best messages. The stars will feel and absorb, go "ah!" Smile. It's familiar stuff, but crystallized through such strange funny birds.