Malibu, December 2024
Fog laden, wind wild, light piercing, or roseblushed still.
No matter what the world is doing, singing perches outside my window in loyal commitment to rousing and greeting.
Is that the commitment?
If so, why continue?
“Good morning”, says I.
And the pitch intensifies.
We hear but do not listen.
“Your singing is beautiful!”
The gaze zeros in.
“What? Are you alright? Is something amiss in the world?”
And then.
Just by chance, in a moment when the brain has emptied intself into pure listening, the music enters and I become it.
I am music. I am you. I am peace.
Mission accomplished. Thank you.
And the bird claps.