As a blue ink night recedes
Into a morning star And the birth of sunshine, Birds warm their voices: a prelude to the Dawn Chorus. When will we begin our own dawn chorus? A celebration of ourselves, Of a new beginning A sunrise A start. There is a unity in birdsong Which crosses the barriers That we seem unable to navigate. An ownership of the volume of self Amidst the spontaneous melody Of others. The songs share the same branches. There is companionship instead of rivalry. The persistent ring of Crested Barbet, The babbling, watery call of Boubou and Coucal That feels like a warm drink. Oriole sounds like a sunshine yellow Water droplet hidden by green leaves. Even the rattling cackle of Guineafowl Is given its own sound space. There are the duets of Hornbill with wings outstretched And the whistle of Woodland Kingfisher As electric as the blue of its feathers. Black-collared Barbet only sings in pairs A melody in harmony with each other. The purr of Red-Eyed Dove is The shimmer of noontime bushveld heat, And Monotonous Larks bring on the Summer rain. The sound of Africa smiles clear as An iconic warble of Fish Eagle: Neck thrown back in an ecstasy of sound. Even the mournful pattering of Wood Dove Like wind over the throat of an open bottle. Is a note to the tapestry of Wilderness. The birds do not fear the night either, But sing through it instead: The twirl of Scops Owl Or “Good Lord Deliver Us” From Fiery Necked Nightjar. And the pierce of Pearl-Spotted Owlet. Why are we afraid of our own voices? Why do we retreat to silence Instead of embracing the volume of Our own presence. Courtney Watson Like the birds. There is a celebration to sound, A connection disconnected from us.
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ContentSome thoughts about things, sometimes philosophical, sometimes just musings. The world through my eyes... Archives
March 2023
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