This morning, my ears feel numb. Dulled somehow to the wonder of the world, or the whispers of its Creator.
I clear a space in the muddled, meddling clutter, clear the view so I can see the sun shining on the sibling pear trees in the yard. I open the window, just a few inches, for it is nearly November.
The world breathes in. There is an underlying hum of the wind, conducting “Autumn” better than Vivaldi, and turning a wild dance with a golden, glittering poplar. A lone crow, a chickadee duet, the low clucking of ranging chickens – winged creatures speak over the wind’s hustle.
The Manitoba Maple has been shaken bare of leaves. The brave skeleton stands firm, twisted arms stretching, protecting this house from the nor’east winds.
I have been one to speak with the wind. But I am tired, and cannot distinguish its tones. A junco hops by on a maple branch. It is in the know. This I can tell by its bright eyes, and the way its feathers turn to meet the wind. It doesn’t stay long. It must follow the song.
I put my face close to the opening between my world and another. I breathe in. I pray. I ask to be shaken, like the poplar. I ask to be brave, like the maple. I ask to be merry, like the chickadees. I ask to be unbound, like the crow. But most of all, I ask for the junco’s ears.