Birdsong

Some are clearly Buddhist, they sing not much, but drone and chant, they do not flaunt. Some are brightly painted egos, their songs bootie-calls from empty nests where they preen melodically rampant. Others strain both throats and tongues bend a tune to a roundelay as nimbly as any yogic mystic. A few are serenely drab yet their songs are Catholic hymns that soar saintly and sibilant. Each species preaches their own cyclical creed, then propels melodramatic arias to shake the air or tweet, tremolo, warble, and twitter their own sacred canticles. Some tree cloistered avian sing just as sweetly as any Sufi poem. A noted wrecking-crew rabble-rouse and mob, they declaim their rowdy rhythms from a thumping zealot's craw and caw. It is the musicality of their soul-songs that we recognize, all the feathered mantra's, psalms and psalters that are pumped from natures solar plexus as chorales and airy orisons. Then of course there are the faithless calls of blue jays, parrots, mockingbirds and the honey easting Miner Birds atheist all yet they bring a rib-digging jollity to the church of the sky. All raise-up their voices. A flocked congregation chirping soft and loud with a common lyricism of body, spirit, and the votive holiness of passing clouds.