Everything has its own song.
Joseph von Eichendorff
I sing of songs.
I sing of silent songs.
I sing of the piccolo twitter of humming birds as they hover over their business,
of the heraldic tones of the eagle aloft and gliding,
of the crane as it carefully prints its balletic feet on the shoreline's reeds,
of the rooster's cake walk through the barnyard.
I sing of the round sweet flute tones of the rose as it sings to the sun,
of the proud tenor aria of the oak tree, old and majestic,
of the meadow's choir filled with praise and life.
I sing of the warm, windless spring day's harp strings,
the whip crack of lightening,
the piano fingers of rain.
I sing of the infinite fugue of the waves as they rise and fall across the sea,
the short clicking if the castanets among the pebbles on the beach,
the hymn of the ocean breeze.
I sing of the brass blasts of mountain peaks as they challenge the sky,
the orchestration of the forest
and the banjo picking in the hollow.
I sing of the brazen shouts of tall buildings gathered together in the city, flinging the sunlight back upon each other trying to sing louder than the next one.
of the harmonious hum of the house where happy, hopeful people live,
of the baritone voices of old, well-read books tucked on a library shelf.
I sing of the atonality of the street,
the dance suite of shops along the sidewalk,
the clashing rhythms of the traffic.
I sing of the whispers of the canoe across the lake,
the endless, relentless oratorio of the waterfall,
the serenade of the rainbow.
I sing of the clarion noise of the blazing sun,
the zephyr sounds of the stately moving clouds,
the mystical moaning of the moon.
I sing of silent songs, of the songs we never hear, that we cannot hear by listening.
I sing of the silent songs of life.
But most of all I sing of the guitar strumming folk song of friendship, of love.
DB - The Vagabond