FALL SABBATICAL-TUESDAY

I'm a day behind, due to technically slow difficulties using dial-up, but it gives me the time to reflect on the whole day before I post. Tuesday was a day of both relaxation and work.  Sunday, I decided on a schedule to keep each day, so that there is some time "scheduled" for quiet contemplation, some for productivity and some for creativity.  Tuesday's work revealed my age and lack of any real physical work in my life.  I cleared the trail for the upcoming retreat of hanging branches and fallen logs, stacking brush piles up along the way for wildlife refuges (refugia).  All that reaching and lopping and bending and hauling...left me a bit sore by evening.  But it is good work, and does a body good.

What I noticed while up on the prairie ridge section was a wonderful population of black, shingle and white oak saplings coming up.  Many of the saplings were so short, while their leaves were huge, often longer than the trunk, which I found amusing.  I'll be dead before any of them reach the size of the neighbor's mother trees that tossed their acorns over the fence for squirrels to unwittingly plant. But it does my heart good to know they will be there long after I am gone for someone else, and the wildlife, to enjoy.

After work, I wrote a poem from my morning meditation on the porch, as I listened to the birds and drank Lemon Zinger tea.  It's a poem I will probably continue to work on...but that may take a while...so I'll share it with you in this form.  Let me know what you think.  Enjoy your day. 

October Morning

The Eastern Towhee sings his 2-syllable chirp

in the blue spruce next to me on the deck,

the sleepy, gray dawn slowly brightens, then

suddenly sparks, igniting quiet into cacophonies

I hear each bird’s rhythm – 4 caws from the crow

5 quick buzzes from the titmouse, never ending

screeches from a blue jay, 2 electric songs from

bluebirds perched on a wire, 1 toy-squeak

from a flicker – calling to the world, each other,

to God, that their life matters

Would that we should wake up each morning and

scream for hours from our porches - who we are,

our intentions, the names of our loved ones and

ours, if God re-named us, like the Sons of Thunder

At almost 8:30 the measured calls start to wane

Sounds of the human day begin–a chained dog barks,

cars chase each down their appointed routes,

in the distance there is the growl of machinery

I’ll come back at 4:30 when the day’s chores

Are behind me to listen  again to their

chattering in the trees, as they store up seeds

at the feeder for the long, chilly night ahead

Their voice, my voice, your voice fills the world