Whippoorwill Morning

One of these mysterious bird sings downhill at 5 a.m.  The world’s going to be new once again. Warm enough to leave windows cracked, love ballads from doves, owl warnings, frogs’ splashing, nuthatches prowling and eventually my neighbor Timothy whistling an aria as he walks down the gravel road eventually spur Cath and I to crawl out.

Why these mysterious goatsuckers have to choose unexpected times to serenade the forest confounds me. They have become so rare that I’m blessed by their chanting.

Once I climbed onto my roof to have a last view of Hailey’s Comet early on a March morning in the 1980s. Despite the cold and wind, a whippoorwill performed a solo before the sun reached Iceland.

Unexpected melodies seem a generous offering, a sure way to break cynicism. I’ve learned to listen for what startles.

I heard popular essayist Malcolm Gladwell explain how easy it can be to misconstrue what people think and do. Talking with Strangers as an audio books uses lots of voices to warn that understanding unfamiliar people can be especially complex.

Take nothing for granted. Everything’s an offering abounding with possibilities.

I have to pass on so much stuff. I’m at the stage of trying to be discriminatory. This means de-acquistioning more than acquistion. I used to be a rock climber and loved new challenges.

Better now to do less and take fewer chances. I need high probability of success.

Out at the cabin, I have to keep tools handy. I learned gasoline goes bad in eight or ten months. It can gunk up a carborator pretty bad. You never know when you’ll have to clear the road with that old chainsaw.

Luckily mornings in the woods begin with few choices. I feel as if overhearing birds explains all it takes to appreciate essential prospects.

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