The Traveler

I knew somehow you'd finally see me.

I've been singing from this open location for thirty-five years knowing that my song was not quite the right combination of notes, not quite the proper cadence to catch your ear.

But I've studied closely.
I've listened each season when you and your musically inclined flock pass through our forest echoing from treetop to highest bough.
Our children would fall asleep late summer evenings counting your spiraled melody and tale. Or, I'd be out very early, in the garden's cold mountain dawn. First one song, then another would peak above the river's spill, telling me of Joy.

When we actually met, I was close enough to hold our presence within, as though breath shared between us. And you didn't fly off, anxiously busy to be away, more as though you would have enjoyed staying longer and said, with a glance, that perhaps we'd find each other again.

Maybe some wet rainy day in the fall when being close would provide needed warmth.

I'll keep singing until then. And watching; listening.