The Listening Path

It is almost seven P.M. on a July evening in Santa Fe, and the sky is still a bright, azure blue. I sit on a bench amid trees and flowers. Birds chirp in the tree nearby. I can’t see them, hidden in the tapestry of leaves, but I hear them as clearly as if they are next to me on the bench. Farther in the distance, a raven caws. Is it communicating with my nearby songbirds, or is its conversation unrelated? Farther off, a dog barks. A light breeze shifts the tall purple flowers by my bench and they rustle against one another as they sway back and forth. A car passes by, its engine quieter than its heavy wheels crunching through the gravel below. Far in the distance, a horn honks on the main throughway. Wings flutter as a bird lights to the sky, gliding away and out of sight. Nearby, the songbirds’ chatter has slowed, but they still sing, a tuneful discussion in the greenery above. Earlier, it sounded as if they were all speaking at once. Now they seem to be taking turns. Are they listening to each other?