I have waited all week for Saturday morning so I could sleep late. But I have also waited all winter for the song of the birds. As I lie awake, hours before chores or appointments compel me to stir, the trills and echoes fill my ears and my heart. The mornings are still cool, so the windows aren't shut, and the whir of the air conditioner isn't drowning them out yet. I hear the traffic from the highway, which I never notice hearing during the day. An airplane passes overhead. The gentle wind stirs the curtains and glides past my sleep-warmed body with a delicious chill.
There are many different varieties of birds in Massachusetts. I recognize the cardinal's call, and the robin's, but the rest is just a symphony of trills and chirps and tweets to me, punctuated with the occasional raucousness of the crow. One of these days I'll get a book and learn about the singers of this song. For this moment I am content to just listen, and to memorize the sound. I want to imprint it into my heart so that when winter comes again, or when my ears are too old to hear those high notes, I'll be able to open this memory like a music box and play it back note for note and smile as I bless the Composer.
There are many different varieties of birds in Massachusetts. I recognize the cardinal's call, and the robin's, but the rest is just a symphony of trills and chirps and tweets to me, punctuated with the occasional raucousness of the crow. One of these days I'll get a book and learn about the singers of this song. For this moment I am content to just listen, and to memorize the sound. I want to imprint it into my heart so that when winter comes again, or when my ears are too old to hear those high notes, I'll be able to open this memory like a music box and play it back note for note and smile as I bless the Composer.
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