Sky floor

She, in the clear morning after the night's rain for gentle dragon and tiger qigong with friends in the lawns of the Arboretum, and I, strolling with wife and sister-in-law in lusciously golden late afternoon light in the same tree garden, both serenaded by the same bird.

Same bird? Probably not, since the one I heard sang for only a few minutes at the top of the Siberian fir before flying away. Serenaded? Hardly, since birds sing for each other, not for the diminutive head-on beings walking or exercising way down below in the grass on the floor of the sky.

Still, it's a nice error. I imagine my friend luxuriating in slow, deliberate movements in the dry, cool air, and realizing in mid-gesture, the unguent of trills and warbles mixing with the sunlight drenching her. As I ambled among the tall, craggy conifers, it was as if the very apex of the air had taken to expressing itself in a melodious stream of whistling and chirping (recorded and listened to several times since.)

Why shouldn't these songs have been the songster's benediction; and why shouldn't she and I, recipients of the same blessing, not amplify its resonance by mutual acknowledgement?

Aviator, what can we do for you?  Curb our cats? Protect forests and flyways? Provide winter rations? Sing for you? Perhaps we already do, though our voices, even one by one, may be cacophonic compared to your clear, sweet tones.

When we come to your place, may our ears be ever open to the music of the sky.