Early this morning on our walk, we decided to go through the woods instead of on the road. Perfect decision as a part of the way up the path we heard it–the wood thrush.

This clear, cool bird song makes me think of two things:

1) Allen’s grandmother when she was staying with us two years ago and slept with her window slightly ajar so that she could hear the thrush in the morning.

2) this poem by Jane Kenyon, which should be read and then read again and again: Having it Out with Melancholy–here is the final stanza (but please read the whole poem–it will turn you inside out):

High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome

by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

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