What if my life — all life — is defined by what I cannot see?

What if what matters most is invisible to me?

If my hearing was better — more acute and finely tuned — could I hear life happen around me?

What do the newest rose bush leaves sound like as they appear breaking dark purple – not green – into these early spring days?  What do the garden worms sound like – those I so carefully court and care for buried in their earthen bins as they work their magic in the soil?

I heard the raven yesterday.  It was perched on the tallest pinnacle it could find on my neighbor’s glorious pine tree.  It’s mate circled and dove, trying to gain that same foothold where the snacks of newest pine needles was tastiest, full of vitamin C.  One raven held it’s ground – if I can say, so high in the air.

The loser flew again and again, soaring high above the Mexican-American border wall to disappear somewhere, somewhere, somewhere else before it returned.  Four times it returned to float in the air inches – again – from its staunchly standing mate – the one who barely lifted its sturdy wings as the gusts of wind whipped around — the tree and the bird.

And there was that conversation.  I listened.  The neighbor’s bony bull mastiff lies tied by a chain, only bumpy gravel rocks to sleep upon down there on the ground below the growing, reaching, soaring tree.  Raven and dog, dog so captured caught and sad – barking in tones raven answered.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  Intent and intention as these two conversed.  One free.  One not.

Beside and below I watched the many butterflies float around my spring budding garden.  Their first day here.  So early.  So light.  Also so free.

And I the watching, listening one.  I having paused from building compost, moving worms into their new homes, knowing they will busily and happily consume consume consume while turning what is useless to other life into something good – something new – something that can bear and sustain life as it comes and goes in these wide circles.

Finally raven mate came to circle the tree’s tip one last time, turned and flew back over the border so invisible to those who are free.  Tree top abandoned.  Conversation ended.  New pine needle snacking completed.  Off flew the birds – south.  Still chained, the dog, silent again — did it feel better having been listened to?  Does the chained one have visions now of places it cannot see?

Will the butterflies return today?  Are they listening for flowers yet to come?


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