Morning was quiet

as if birds were keeping secrets

flitting from branch to branch

across the field as we hiked

a hawk glided by, intent on prey

making no sound, but present

Even the magpies were silent

content to bask in the sunshine

field becomes thicket as we round a bend

tiny birds flitting among the branches

their high pitched calls

barely audible, but heard for the first time in years

pausing in our journey, we locate the source

chick-a-dees, perhaps sparrows

flit among the branches,

hiding among leaves not yet fallen

quiet they are, respecting

the silence of other flyers

they can’t help themselves,

they must sing to greet the morn

so they do, softly and with intent

sharing their quiet joy

with me and the world around

a joy the greater because I heard it.