Birds teaching, today, everywhere. The geese quicken me, seeing them gathered, flying north. Something ancient in their call, in their flight, covering flyways they’ve covered for ages.

And the hawk, a red tail, balanced on the thinnest of branches, in a tree by the roadside, peering intently down into the furrowed rows of a late winter cornfield. What does the mouse see when the hawk drops? A shadow, great sharp talons, and then darkness. To the mice, the hawk must be God.

Then first spring rain, sitting on my porch. A young cardinal calls, from th maple tree on the boulevard. Mourning dove coos as it calls from the feeder. Bird calls mingle with rain sound–beautiful music.