I step out the door into a lively conversation already underway.
The woodpecker is holding forth, rapping his message,
the morning dove coos, the cardinal trills
and a congregation adds their own embellished agreements
or rebellious agitation.
Even the geese, returning from a winter’s sojourn, join in the boisterous banter.
I stand in awe for a moment just to take in this morning cacophony.
I walk up the hill, down the lane, past the cows and on by the alpacas and horses. Leaning into Emmaus Road my pace quickens and so does the chatter. Are they cheering me on? Providing company for the path? Or indifferent to my presence, absorbed in their own worlds?
I spot a lone bird atop a bale of hay lifting her throat to the throng.
On the return, crossing Hastily, down Silver Dapple once again and back towards home,
it is quieter now.
Only a few remain in the concert hall of my thoughts,
chirping their ideas, tweeting their rebuttal.
They are settling in for the day ahead yet nothing has been settled upon,
except that we all must begin.
Closing the door, I take up my pen to record the findings,
drawcument the sights,
chronicle the listenings,
make sense of the chaos,
find a tune in the midst of it all.