The March woods are my cathedral choir. Dry Blackjack leaves rattle on the tree and fly. Anoles skitter through piles of dead oak leaves, startling me until my memory of this season recalibrates to their sound. Squirrels make a bigger noise, vertically racing and leaping from tree to tree, high in the canopy. The accoustical hop, hop of unseen brown thrashers is bigger than the bird. Everywhere there is sound and echo, call and answer. Full body and soul immersion into morning birdsong is the baptism toward which I run.
