All is silent but the sparrow praising the light, pouring his goodness to sky and tree, root and leaf. The sun crests the day, as if climbing towards that final, but never final zenith, the marathon is almost done. Soon it will be the downhill slide towards the thin strung light of the snow. It seems funny that we can never just love the moment, always finding the decay within the bloom. Always hearing the screeching future, all tumbling leaves and sharp disintegration. I relish this though, the small opening of space that the soft morning offers. It seems like silence, but when I sit, I hear the faint traces of the ocean in the trees and the sparrow. Oh how he sings, he doesn't remember the fall from grace, the closed garden gates. The fruit is nothing more than a song to him, seeds passed, made ready to blossom infinitely. I listen and think maybe somewhere in the chorus of silence are the collective breaths and I smile for the small goodness in the world.
