We’ve been told: the ancient bard,
Could hear the “music of the spheres.”
We have since seen harmony on high,
But astral strains never were heard.
We do hear the music of “our” sphere,
Whose virtuosos perform in nature’s realm.
One has but to attend to hear.
The splash of raindrops on trembling leaves,
The whistled wind-song thru tall dark reeds,
The high pitch scratch of cricket limbs,
The basso profundo of bull frog croaks,
The redundant “coo” of mourning doves,
The baby sounding off for the mom,
The wolf intoning his baritone aria,
The countless chirps of little birds,
The gleeful chatter of sportive chipmunks,
The staccato sound of barking dogs,
The brassy honks of overflying geese,
The lakes soft slosh on muddy banks.
One can, in truth, faintly hear,
If he listens, most meditatively,
The upward thrust of perennial plants,
The final melt of tardy snow,
Spring, is that really you?
Have you just returned?
Welcome, do come in, Spring, my love.