I Hear the Hermit Thrush, Singing

For me, it happened the morning after writing most of a short story about a time-traveling beekeeper in love with an ornithologist. I was out walking my dog in Willowcreek Park. We headed toward the bend in the past where the hermit thrushes were yesterday. Today, I did not see them, but I heard their song. I recognized it for the first time. I whistled it back to them, and they answered me. They sang back to me the secret in their hearts. These whispered words are the clockwork genes in my DNA. I shift into possibility, and I travel back. I take you to a place beyond dreaming, sweeter after being lost, then found. Stay here with me, under the shelter of the trees, and listen.

White sky, winter’s edge,

tule fog rises through trees—

three notes, glistening



Willowcreek Park
South Davis


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