Sabbath # 4

I have come to rest where I hear birdsong not as background but all foreground. Immediate. Not singular but plural.  My life no longer a bowl and spoon. Yet, monastic still. Tempered by creek and cornfield. Not an island but two-sided, sea and bay. And a breeze always off shore. Still sand and shells by the door. Gone , my divine discontent. Replaced by wood and window. Not just one door. So many ways to enter. Entrances. Because what is outer is inner. Still ancestors above my desk. Still barefoot. Still berries on the table and pears.