Up in the forest I hear the wood thrush, the peepers, the orioles and the tanagers. A nearby deer huffs to make out my position. The woodcock peents to announce their show is about to begin. Take your places. The air is cool and the moon is early — high and bright in May’s evening sky, sharing time with the sunset.

This is not a silent spring. If spring is going to continue singing its songs, it will need our attention and our action, but the members of the orchestra – the frogs, the migrating birds, the drummings of courtship – are still here. We are still here. This chapter is still being written.

The narrative of doom has no place here, among the wood frogs, the dragonflies, and the early butterflies. The doomsday story serves only its own ugly ends. Like noticing you are driving a car that is aimed at a cliff, and doing nothing but adding gas. When all we have to do is realize we’re sitting at the wheel.

“Do you sometimes want to wake up to the singularity we once were? so compact nobody needed a bed, or food or money — ... /For every atom belonging to me as good Belongs to you./ Remember? … would that we could wake up to what we were… before we came to believe humans were so important…” ~from Singularity by Marie Howe

Happy Spring folks 🌸💚