I stop my rapid steps to listen:
Chattering pip-pips like laughter,
Soaring songs a hallelujah chorus from angels not created in our image.
The woodthrush fills the woods with more than sound,
a tangible presence invisible inside the dark forest made darker by the backlight of sunset.
Their melodies carry magic.
They help me breathe,
help me lift my arms and spread myself,
tilt my chin and look up,
forget what keeps me in my head.
The barking of faraway dogs disappears
as does the memory of the machine cutting hay this afternoon.
Gradually the pip-pips cease,
songs grow long pauses between,
the forest quiets into twilight.
And I am a body simply standing in the road.