Memoir: Morning in England

I thought I was dreaming when I heard the song.  An unknown instrument, a flute, but not a flute was spilling out of my dream into the English garden outside my bedroom window.  I drifted on the melody floating out of the dream.  The trilling music continued one song after another.  My heart opened to the music vibrating throughout my whole being.  I took in a bottomless breath listening not wanting to disturb the source of such beauty.

Then, it stopped.  I cocked my ears to hear more.  Nothing.  I went to the window searching the dense green of ancient yews, oaks, and beech trees ...  Nothing.  I leaned into the mingled morning fragrance of dew and flowers but nothing.   I stood mesmerized thinking I must be still dreaming.

 I moved into my day spellbound and wondering.  It was late morning when I saw my neighbor, Allen, who asked with a smile,  “Did you hear the nightingale sing this morning?”

Oh, yes, I did.

Jesse