via Daily Prompt: Trill
Normally I’m so intent on fishing that I hardly hesitate between casts. But this morning I reel in my lure and set the rod down. It’s prime fishing time, peak of the bite. I fight the compulsion to make another cast. I close my eyes and lean back against the backrest on the canoe seat.
I hear a mourning dove down the river giving its forlorn, mournful coo. That’s one bird that earns its name.
Then I hear the trill of a hermit thrush. Its sound piercing through the foggy morning, clear and cutting like the tangy taste of a lime. It’s lilting notes tingling the senses and there’s a part of my brain that cringes like a kid sucking on a lemon. Its notes float ethereally, a crescendo up and then down like the sound of a babbling brook with a bell like clearness.
On every note, swinging with the ups and downs of every in and out… of life. But for the vast majority just another bird, out there in the forest doing what birds do every morning. A background sound hardly noticed signifying nothing.
I hope my life has been a beautiful song. But I wonder if anyone alive has cared enough to take the time to listen. As I tip-toe through middle age, I fear I too have become a part of the background noise noticed by few signifying nothing.
But, ah, the sound of that bird as it continues to sing.
So I pick up my rod and make another cast keenly aware of all the beauty around me, continuing to listen, blessed by the trill of the hermit thrush, filling my heart, piercing my soul.