Some days are diamonds.
I know what set John Denver’s Muse to whisper that line in his ear one day: Serendipitously hearing the prehistoric lowing of a sedge of Sandhill Cranes, wings beating languidly heavenward on some unexpected afternoon just before spring. Erie. Resplendent. An exclamation point in an otherwise ordinary day.
There’s something truly magical in bearing witness to the pulses of the planet—rhythms predating the human footprint by millennia. When the play unfolds above a landscape so completely altered by humanity that even the trees and plants appear as foreign bodies, well, you count your blessings.
Today was just such a diamond, leaving Rag’s and I chuckling about how absurd the whole of human existence is in the vastness of Gaia’s biological history. There, right above us, was an annual migration that had ebbed and flowed millions of times before. Yet, humanity fails to grok the magic unfolding in the skies above—if it did, traffic would come to a standstill and the buildings would empty, as all lean back to marvel.
Here’s hoping more of us begin to look up and listen.