The gift of a pleasant summer’s day has come to us in winter. In the distance, a neighbor’s heavy earth moving equipment goes suddenly, blessedly silent. I can hear once again the songs of birds, roosters crowing, and the liquid churning of the spring below.
Soon, another neighbor runs what sounds like a gravel tossing machine down his long driveway, hidden behind the trees. Just as birds have their colorful songs, and the stream has its own beautiful song, man also has his own song. On this day, that song is the sound of rumbling, clacking, chain rattling, tree cutting, earth tearing machinery.
Why can’t we, for a time, put away our machines? If we don’t, the Earth may bring them to rest for us, for a time so long that our iron dragons (as the Faerie call them) will turn to rust and finally crumble into dust. Perhaps then we will listen to the songs of Mother Earth. Perhaps then we can create a new song of our own, a song so beautiful that even the birds will stop to listen and join with us in harmony.
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