a language older than the oldest script of man

it's late august and happily

my day often begins with birdsong.

sometimes its the cooing of mourning doves,

sometimes the cawing of my friends the crows,

and some days it's the territorial imperative

of the neighbourhood robins.

goldfinches are less frequent contributors to the morning chorus,

but their distinctive voices add a nice touch.

one of my favourite writers

- mary webb -

wrote these beautiful long ago words about birdsong:

wood pigeons spoke in their deep voices

from the dark pines

across the batch -

a language older than the oldest script of man.

cuckoos shouted in the wind-riven larches,

green beyond imagining . . .

shishkin "brook in birch forest " (click on image to enlarge)

a blackbird meditated aloud in high rhapsody,

very leisured,

but very tireless,

on matters deeper than the coppice pool far below,

deep as the mystery of the chipped, freckled eggs in his nest in the thorn.

polonov "overgrown pond" (detail) (click on image to enlarge)

there's deep knowledge in their songs.

sometimes joyous, sometimes fearful,

sometimes threatening, sometimes reminding.

in the wintertime

when the birds have for the most part gone south

to keep their bodies and their heritage intact,

i miss their songs.

i miss their incredible wheeling and diving across and through the sky.

i miss the sound of the air passing through their feathers.

i miss the magical discoveries of their eggs.

cracked afterthoughts after the wonder of birth.

soon they'll start thinking about leaving.

so for now, i pay special attention to their songs.

holding them inside as i do the idea of green.

leaves, the rustling of an afternoon breeze through the trees.

the sensation of flowers.

the draping of a humid breeze across my body.

the feeling of grass under my bare feet.

(italicized words by mary webb from her novel "gone to earth".)