So many days are filled with strife,
Yet, music calms and heals my life;
It's not the songs that men play well,
But nature’s songs that cast their spells…
When years were young and days were long,
My father taught me Bobwhite’s song,
And on those days when time was free,
We’d call to lively Chickadees
We’d sit together on a log
At Miller’s Pond or any bog,
And listen to the Kildeer’s trill
Upon a bush or up the hill
We’d laugh and sing to hear a Jay
So quick to scold along our way,
And we would answer old Barred Owl's
“Who cooks for you?” with jaunty howls
And it would give us much delight,
As afternoons turned into nights,
To know the song of Mourning Doves,
So sadly cooed from boughs above...
My father’s teachings I hold dear
Though he’s now gone, it’s very clear:
I only have to step outside,
And there he is, right by my side...
Yes, nature’s songs are symphonies
Sung from a branch or on the breeze;
It's not men's songs that serve me well,
But nature’s songs that cast their spells…
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