Birdsong at the edge of a dream lures me with promises of sunrise.

The chatter of maple and oak, of poplar and tiny pine at the lip of the wood,

Whisper and cry of all that is green. 

 

Every shade of green

Translucent, pale, almost white with just a hint of pastel

Chartreuse underleaf

Deep spruce cloak

Forest green right out of the crayon box of my childhood

Soft grass and brittle weed and patches of red clay

 

The thought appears in the birdsong of this forest.

They are telling their story of Mother Wing who created every singing thing.

They argue and chitter and chatter,

But it goes something like this.

 

She dreamt the sky, the sun, the sea, and the soft clay into being.

Her first children were fleeting clouds and the shape of things to come.

Wherever Mother Wing’s great feathers fell to the ground, grand forests grew.

 

Mother Wing saw the beauty there and wished to live in those forests

But she was too great, for she was all of it.

And so, she swept to earth, gathered clay in her talons and rose above the forests,

Scattering the earth through the sky.

Each piece of clay, dirt, rock and pebble

Blessed thus by Mother Wing

Fell through the sky

Awakening to her song and to its own trembling.

 

Mother Wing’s children took flight

In search of a home between ground and sky,

Shelter in the forest and freedom in the soul gift of Mother Wing.

 

Ah, but the birds, they began to argue

Sparrow said that Mother Wing was, of course, a great Sparrow.

Wren said that she was a wondrous Wren.

Woodpecker said nothing, kept tapping, but looked self-assured that they would all conclude that Mother Wing was indeed a Woodpecker.

Jay argued the loudest, Mockingbird laughed in several tongues, and on it went,

Until they forgot the story and went in search of breakfast.

 

And so did I.