She hears the rhythm of warblers

She hears the rhythm of warblers in the hollowed out oak tree. Like a rotund baritone drone, or a sleeping snore--as a steady background to everyday sounds- garbage trucks, and low flying helicopters... circling above- as seagulls, not doves. Still droning, hardly owning anything besides a fireplace, wild- flowers, and a singular smile. Staying awhile for boggle or scrabble-- deep into the late spring night. Drone ends. Luciano Pavroti sings his favorite aria. No other sounds make any sense. Ears open to listen, quite intently to beam-- in triplets the richness of sound. Crowning our sensibilities into song. Doggie barks are terse punctuation marks--- in between the non-stop lawnmowers in stereo. Looking up at condensed garden and one un-assuming sky- brushes purple rouge over a pallid canvas, high in the catskills. The purple money plant, prolific takes over the pile of ceramic and plastic planters left since last spring-- underneath the wheel barrow-- leaning against the half dead oak. Light sun followed by light rain drops. sitting with late spring warmth-- how the gentle sun crowns us with synaptic rigor burning, rocking, and rolling emerald green grasses on fire with a temperate spring