The bird sounds are transcendent, otherworldly. They stretch me beyond the realm of our known world and, at the same time, root me to the Earth. I am the tree the bird happens upon, nestling and pecking its feathers with its beak before swiftly taking off. I am also the bird. The wanderer in air and dirt.
I downloaded a bird identification app a while ago, and now that it is spring, the bird songs are growing loud and melodious in the sweet air. On weekends, I enjoy living slowly and gently through the mornings, listening to the birds and my own rhythm. I’ve learned to recognize their sounds. There are mourning doves, northern cardinals, American robins and goldfinches, killdeers, house sparrows and finches.
Dandelions are growing with the grass now. The lawn is covered in them, and from the hours of 7 a.m. to 11 a.m., I watch as the birds peck at the dirt, sometimes rising with the gift of a worm.
The sweetest house finch, its red feathered face and breast, looks down at me from the nest they’ve built in our balcony light. I read my most recent library book aloud to him while he looks down at me, curiously, from this little home.
I lay on the grass near the Red Cedar river on a sunny day. Two geese waddle toward me. Vocal, spacious creatures they are, yet they simply followed me, moving closer to my presence. I think they found contentment there.
I continue walking along the Red Cedar, moving near the Beal Garden. The sounds of sparrows, mallards, American robins, and black-capped chickadee’s surround me and I rise with them.