It is quiet therein the great oak treeby the brook, in the fields –

and why shouldn’t it be?For it is morning –Dawn

No sound comesto my earsbut there is no such thingas silence.So I listenand I try to make outthe not-silence.

So I listen,and then I hear –the quiet whisper of theleaves in the great oak treemurmuring to the awakening world:Stand strong and steady, strong and steady –like the oak tree itself.

I hear –the gentle tumbling of the brookover beyond that stretch of fieldthe clear waters leaping and gurgling as they chortle:Fill with life, spirit, and love, life, spirit, and love –like the vibrant brook itself.

I hear –the soft rustle of thetall, swaying grassin the wind.Breathing:Gentle and peaceful, gentle and peaceful –like the quiet grass itself.

I hear –the faint calls of the birdswarbling in the treesto the wan morning:Wake up! Wake up! and hear our song –their clear, silver voices rising to the sky in unified harmony.

And I hear –the deep, golden soundof bellsrolling low and unwaveringover the rippling fields:Come, and start, this morning’s work – for there is much to do today! –and I slide from the leafygrasp of the oakbut I know I will come back tomorrow –to listen to the rippling life of the world.