when i was growing up, the waves crashing against the assateague island beach sounded like mother nature raking her nails down a sandy chalkboard.
the melodies she played for the eastern shore never struck me as the beautiful compositions others made them out to be. to my ears, the crickets fiddled violins with broken strings, the doves sang off-key, and the wind constantly blew the wrong notes on her pine tree flutes. where everybody else seemed to see an orchestra of community members all playing in harmony, i saw a transient band of wandering musicians. though i sat as far back in the auditorium as i could, the doors remained locked during the performance, and the cacophony still reached my ears.
a songbird cannot stay if there are no trees to nest in, no branches to perch on and sing from.
i sang the ballad of a caged songbird, harping to anyone who would listen that one day i’d escape this place and fly away, never to return. that i could not stand their noise another moment longer. there was not a song that my hometown could sing to me that would move me to change my mind. a songbird cannot stay if there are no trees to nest in, no branches to perch on and sing from. a songbird cannot stay if the rest of its flock flies away. a songbird cannot stay if the rest of the ecosystem sees it as prey.
and one day, i did escape. the august breeze carried whispers of change, so i packed up and took flight. the crickets repaired their violins, the doves chimed in harmony, and the wind lowered her flute and lifted my wings, as if offering me a quiet goodbye. a lovely, melancholic sound floated through the air as i flew. i had never known such music from where i had come from. though unmoved in my decision to leave, i was moved to silence.
in due time, mother nature will play the eastern shore a different melody. she will pull a blue blanket over its sandy torso, with the gentleness of a parent tucking in a child, before finally cradling it to sleep.
when winter came, i flew south, back to the place i swore i’d never return to. mother nature halted her orchestra with a soft hand as i swung open the door to my bedroom, my birdcage. no screech on its hinges, no creak of the floor. not a sound from the crickets, not a peep from the doves, not a breath from the wind. there was not a cry from the gulls, a rhapsody from the bullfrogs, a drum from the rain. i asked, where are the familiar sounds, the odd comforts of my gilded cage? how is it possible they halted only when i left? did i sing them away after all? and as i began to weep in the earth-shattering silence, she demanded that i hush, and that her musicians start again from the beginning of the aria.
in due time, mother nature will play the eastern shore a different melody. she will pull a blue blanket over its sandy torso, with the gentleness of a parent tucking in a child, before finally cradling it to sleep. beautiful music will flood the space where it lay, until she sees that it is sound asleep.
i will perch on a lighthouse, a songbird’s flight above as the water rushes in.
some might choose to lie down for a final rest alongside the only place they ever knew. i will perch on a lighthouse, a songbird’s flight above as the water rushes in. i will stargaze from the only place on earth where i have seen the milky way and listen to the melodies of the crickets. i will watch the sun set over the marsh and take in the coo of the doves. i will spread my wings and let the wind rustle my feathers, one last time.
i will ponder the same questions of responsibility, and guilt, and love, as i do right now, and yet i will cast my eyes over the ocean. for what power does the ballad of a songbird have over mother nature’s lullaby?
i will not question her artistry again. instead, from my place of refuge, i will sing the shore a mournful requiem to break the silence as the tide comes in.
