In the afternoon of summer, sounds
come through the window: a tractor
muttering to itself as it
Pivots at the corner of the
hay field, stalled for a moment
as the green row feeds into the baler.
The wind slips a whisper behind
an ear; the noise of the highway
is like the dark green stem of a rose.
From the kitchen the blunt banging
of cupboard doors and wooden chairs
makes a lonely echo in the floor.
Somewhere, between the breeze
and the faraway sound of a train,
comes a line of birdsong, lightly
threading the heavy cloth of dream.
~Joyce Sutphen, “Soundings” from Naming the Stars
As a young child, I remember waking from my summer afternoon naps to the sights and sounds of our rural community. I could hear tractors working fields in the distance, farm trucks rumbling by on the road, the cows and horses in the fields, a train whistle in the distance and the ever-present birdsong from dawn to dusk.
These were the sounds of contentment and productivity, both together. Surely this is how heaven must be: always a sense of something wonderful happening, always a reason to celebrate, always a profound sense of respite and sanctuary.
Even now, there is that moment of awakening of my heart and soul from a summer nap when I try to listen for the chorus of angels outside my open window.
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