The skin of the planet is fragile.
By listening, you may see a sparrow warming itself in steam on the corner of your gutter.
By listening, you may see the first crocus shimmy up from the frozen Earth. A sentry, the first scout.
You may hear the fall of winter raindrops, warm with the promise of Spring.
You may hear the crunch of twigs breaking in the forest and the long lean blur of a cougar running in fear.
You may feel a vibration coming from the building next door, rich with stomping feet and a band serenading a square dance.
You may hear one one pair of hands in an empty theater or a sneeze carried on the wind.
You may hear the invisible croak of a Pacific Chorus frog, too small for detection.
You may hear the solemn reminder of the owl that has nested behind your house, a reminder of silent wing beats and deadly talons.
By listening, you can hear so much.
You may even be fooled into welcoming the sun into your spring heart, if only she would stay.
You can try to fit her into your empty palm. You can try to capture her, as one clutches a wounded bird. You can try to hold the world up to your ear to see what it may say.
For in the solitudes of living, submerged in all the noise, you can hear so much.
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