The bird song is a place to begin.
But not the bird song.
A bird song.
That bird’s song.
It is not just any bird song.
It is a ballad.
And not any ballad but a lament.
Those chirps they begin at the back of a red feathered throat.
And they progress bravely, sadly, out and into the world.
Or the chime.
Those delicate crystal notes are fragile and tentative.
It is a surprise that they do not shatter on the back yard grill.
The basketball hoop.
The navy side wall of the SUV in the driveway.
The chime notes travel in a gaggle.
A herd-bunch of teen girls.
Headed to powder their collective noses.
They are arranged shortest to tallest.
Take them together and you are getting somewhere.
Chirps and tings and tings and tings chirp!
But do not forget the wind.
Perhaps it is birthed beneath the bird wings.
It nudges and shoves the hanging metal tubes in that back yard where the dandelions stretch toward the sun!
Do not forget the wind.
It lands in the ear before the bird song and between the wind chimes.
Hear them together and you are beginning to hear something.
An old man with a lifetime of calluses,
Runs them up and down the smooth bare back of his grandson.
The little boy sighs. The old man sighs.
You will have to silence much of yourself.
To enter this deeply into The Music.
There is a siren down town.
We only call it a wail because we have stopped listening to it
And begun to think about what it signifies.
Begin to listen to it.
Stop thinking on what it signifies.
You will disover it is not a wail,
You will hear how it plays in the soundscape,
Rising above then below then above then below
The birds’ call and the chimes notes.
The rhythm section,
The scratchy rub and the sighs
And the breeze and the breeze and the breeze.
A man once told me that the music is only within me.
His words they were the first verse of a song.
A woman once told me that music is only outside me.
Her words were the second verse to a song.
There is a chorus.
I have not heard the chorus.
I will sing it now.
But not alone.