The Hills Are Alive

So, today, as the dogs and I are doing our early evening hike up that first leg of the hill that begins at the end of Canyon Acres, there’s this bird trilling its little heart out atop that high bank of dirt to the right of me.  I can’t see him, but his song penetrates my self-absorption enough to bring me to a halt.  I step back and see a big Grey Bird in a scruffy Charlie Brown type tree, singing as if he’s in the Enchanted Forest.  Behind him that wall of rocks that turns into molten gold at sunset, frames him perfectly.  I’m struck by this, by the melody in his song, the way his chest puffs out, his beak raised to the sky.  He’s facing me.  His song is joyful, abandoned; he’s making it up as he goes.  He’s singing to me.  I’m entranced and grateful.

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