April 4, 2012

It's warm, and humid, the air is close and still.  The dark is leaving slowly this morning, the school bus just rounded the corner and I still can't see the trees, except where the streelight is making a dim shine on some farther trees.  There have been several birds singing in the dark though, the same pair of mockingbirds I think, and at least one cardinal.  Far off, I can hear one of the owls, too far away to bother the birds that are closer.

The African violet on my desk is blooming, all magenta fireworks with yellow bursts at the center, a lovely combination of colors.  Except for the occasional bird song, it's quiet, seems like fewer cars out this morning than usual.

For the dark this morning, for the birds that have sung, for beginning . . .

                            Today

The ordinary miracles begin. Somewhere
a signal arrives: “Now,” and the rays
come down. A tomorrow has come. Open
your hands, lift them: morning rings
all the doorbells; porches are cells for prayer.
Religion has touched your throat. Not the same now,
you could close your eyes and go on full of light.

And it is already begun, the chord
that will shiver glass, the song full of time
bending above us. Outside, a sign:
a bird intervenes; the wings tell the air,
“Be warm.” No one is out there, but a giant
has passed through town, widening streets, touching
the ground, shouldering away the stars.

                       William Stafford

There are a lot of ordinary miracles, and while morning has not rung the doorbell yet, the giant has already been and gone, the stars have been shouldered away, and the wings must be telling the air to be warm as it feels so warm and close this morning, the air heavy going in and out, each breath taking the measure of that and moving the morning forward.  Soon the sun will make that chord, bend over the earth and make it shine.

When light arrives, I hope it finds you and makes you shine as well!