Some mornings, I am at peace with dusty shelves and streaked surfaces. Content to consider life in silence, fingertips touching, thumbs unopposed. These are the wiser times; each breath, a centering gift..
Such reverie never lasts. The inevitable interruptions are reminders that my eternal rest has not yet begun. Sometimes, it’s a friendly neighbor. Or a gust of wind blowing something over. This time, it’s a sickening thud on the window that disrupts the mood and ushers in a host of uninvited guests: the Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds.
“Oh, is somebody trying to be contemplative?” the Chorus chides. “Stop lounging around in your shallow safety and pathetic pajamas. We need protection from all that glass.”
I loathe this kind of intrusion. I want to plead ignorance, but the rising essence of millions of broken necks testifies to the credulous assumption of human supremacy. Panoramic views matter more than the lives of our feathered friends.
“But what can I do?” I whine, trying to shake off any culpability. “I don’t build skyscrapers or make the rules.”
“Is there a dead body under your modest, residential window?”
“Probably. But what’s one in the billion that die every year?”
“It’s One. In a billion.”
The answer is solemn. Not accusatory. Just solemn.
One in a billion is infinitesimal, I think to myself. I want to go outside and chuck the telltale body into the compost. But then it occurs to me that I am not even one in a billion, nor are any of you, dear compatriots. Even together, we are a handful in 8.3 billion of our kind. Is this an excuse or an accusation? Is it even comprehensible?
The sparrow falling, the raven drafting upward on thermal currents, the midnight broodings of a Saw-whet owl, yellow canaries littering the coal mines of our solipsistic ways; these are the harbingers of both glad tidings and funereal finalities.
The Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds performs at the break of dawn, but they rehearse through the darkest hours. There is no such thing as a silent night. Often, our worst wrecks are accidental and our denials naïve, but neglect is never actually benign. What if you amass enormous wealth, the best views, the most gold, but lose your soul?
As extinctions accelerate, The Mother Hen will sit on her nest through the fires, protecting her chicks unto death. But when the children emerge from under the charred body, what will await them?
This is yet to be determine. It may be mostly up to us, but The Chorus will sing to the end.
***** ***** *****
For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. Xoxoxo
Short visits with an honest God 