Every morning and evening, when the skies are clear enough, I sit in my upper yard to watch the passing or coming of the dark. I listen to the birds, and I listen for the music; that is, the music of creation itself. I have not heard it yet, though I know it must be playing.

Perhaps this is because I find it so hard to sing a song of hope these days. And yet I do hope. Didn't that crusty old mercenary Abram "hope against hope"? Well, I can do the same.

I shared my "dream" with a colleague at the Just Harvest tent at a local farmers' market the other day: a few acres on which to grow my own vegetables, fruit and nut trees, and grains; a little round earthbag cottage and some storage buildings; perhaps a few Muscovy ducks to give me eggs and listen to my viola (and maybe a viol, too). She thought it was a good dream. Maybe if it comes to pass, a song of hope will come with it.