The last time I went home and to the lake I promised myself I would notice and bring something back to share with you all. I paid attention the warm hours that my sweet mama and sweet sister sat poolside with all the kiddos while I blissfully fished, alone. The guys took the boat, several times over. At last, they asked if I wanted a turn. ( perhaps the boat battery had grown too weary to carry them further.) I declined, happily. I like to fish alone, I like to listen…to the sound of the lure striking the water and fish striking at the lure. I like to hear the leaves shuffle in the small summer breeze and smell the ground give up its last breath of life as I tromp upon it.
And, I like to hear the birds.
I am not really a bird watcher. I don’t know any but the most common of species’ names. Rob does, he can name most any of them at 50 paces. I surely don’t know every name and it’s call, but at least at the lake, I recognize those calls in a way that nearly always brings me to tears. Those calls strike a chord within me the way steel guitar and sometimes a measure of banjo might. All else stops ( for me) at their sounding.
So, I’ve been thinking about birds. Thinking about times that I have seen and sensed and heard holy things through them. Call me Francis.
This time, they brought me no warning, stirred no deep note in me, sang me no siren song. But, they all seemed to be singing, the whole day long. And in all that singing, there was no cacophony, though each sang with his own particular glory. They sang, it seemed, foreign of tongue and ear as I was, together.
I laughed as I heard their unorchestrated chorus. I had desperately needed some silence, particularly silence there, at that particular place… to muse on just that very thing.