I’ve been hearing a thrush occasionally. I rejoice that there’s still one in my woods. We used to have lots of them, but their winter habitat (rainforest maybe?) is disappearing.
Years ago, when I was in a very despairing place, I wanted to pray but could not feel that there was any being out there to pray to. Writing that, I realize that nowadays I just pray and don’t worry about who hears it. But at that time, the universe was empty of Spirit. I thought of the three most beautiful things I know: The Moon, The Daffodil, and the Song of the Thrush, and prayed to the being that created them. There’s a moment in the spring, when the daffodils are blooming, that it’s possible to have all three at once.
NOTHING is so beautiful as spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
First verse of Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins