I wanted to write something clever about all that has been lost, about what a miserable hash we have made of this beautiful planet. Because, we have. And we should be ashamed.

But I spent too much time listening to a mockingbird last evening. He sat on a pole and sang an endless song, never repeating. I tried many times to get up and leave. Then he would start anew another verse I had yet to hear. That I needed to hear.

After his concert and my chores completed, I came inside and sat at my keyboard to begin to type. But no words came to mind, nothing typed out. An empty page.

How could this small feathered creature express with skill, such joy? What was his secret?

Because I really need to know.