Before we heard the birds’ sweet chirps, in the meadow, in the trees,

We were making a point of listening as we walked, not just looking,

Not just thinking.


With ears stretching, waking up, we tuned  to the breeze through the leaves,

Heard the breeze, felt the breeze, heard the distant car tires and engines, our steps on the grass,

And the refining, delicate, increasingly delicate, ecstatically whistling, bliss of our own Divine Joy.


The birdsong seemed to awaken with the Song of Life we were invoking

With our open ears, our open heart.