Today I Learned the Robin’s Song
A person dressed all in black, even a hat hiding the eyes and a large covid mask was sitting on a bench this morning as I walked by on my way to our riverside park where I practice Tai Chi.
Odd, only tourists use these benches, I thought. They face First Street with their backs to the river and the park below — and it’s too early, for tourists.
My practice in the riverside park was distracted by her voice, so I stopped to listen and watch. Seemed she was explaining herself to someone, clearly to herself as she was alone, mixing tears with anger, becoming repetitious — the drone of a person lost in time.
Unseen in the trees was a Robin, or several, singing about spring in a strong, rhythmic voice.
Not sure what to do for the woman on the bench above me, I returned to the forms and completed the practice accompanied by her sad relent of things past and the strong birdsong of today.
I walked down First Street on my way home and all of the benches with their backs to the river were empty, but the song of the Robin was everywhere.
. . .
. . .
A River of Joy
It was a River of Joy
in this morning’s bright light,
filled bank-to-bank with eddies —
large and small–like dancing couples,
spinning and swirling downstream,
caught between gravity and
the pull of the moon.
. . .