Dawn breaking like the first time every time. Bees thrumming, a swirl of musical longing, urging on the birds, cows, and flowers whose song is scent. The chorus from within bursting alive, awake, erased and ready in joy.
Centered on the floor of the gazebo in the middle of a flattened a’a lava flow, it sounds as if the bees—likely giant wasps or yellow jackets—have taken up resident in the roof of the structure. Their hum is strong and encompassing. Their song is one of raw will and determination. Listening closely one hears the chorus portraying a single waving tone and someone else: a solo artist whose buzz sounds like an Azmaris musician, like a quiet answer of joy beneath the hardened choir in their forlorn world. The whole symphony sounds ancient and wise. Steady. Like it has always been and always will be. Not the new and hopeful songs of birds or the strained moo of traumatized cattle.
It is no wonder the bees are up first. They sing the prelude to a greater composition, which is carried by wind. Wind meets other winds carrying their songs and those songs are revealed to be sustained notes in a wind song. This is how Mother Earth sings her part in the Song of Spheres.
The planets and the stars and the space in between. All have their songs within songs and are songs within songs. When people talk about the universe as vibration it is really universe as song. That vibration is like a string on a guitar being plucked by all of life. The vibration does not create the universe, it is the universe. The singing universe. And that universe blends with other universes just as galaxies blend, just as stars and planets blend, just as organisms blend to create this one song. This one song that has no beginning and no end, but pauses between notes full of their own rich feeling, which is also the song.