I confess there are times I leave the conversation. Not bodily, but heart, mind, and soul. I drift. Such a time happened the other night. I was having dinner with a group of long-time friends. We were outside in one’s lovely yard which overlooks a golf course and the hills beyond. My wandering off, metaphorically speaking, began with a flock of ducks flying overhead across the darkening sky. And then birds broke into song all about us, flitting from bush to bush. It was such a joyful moment. And although I tried to call my friends’ attention to the ducks and birds, it maybe was just a singular moment for me, astonished by the joy in it all. A moment to savor.

Mary Oliver often captures such moments.

Consider her poem, What Gorgeous Thing about the ineffable joy in bird song:

I do not know what gorgeous thing
the bluebird keeps saying,
his voice easing out of his throat,
beak, body into the pink air
of the early morning. I like it
whatever it is. Sometimes
it seems the only thing in the world
that is without dark thoughts.
Sometimes it seems the only thing
in the world that is without
questions that can’t and probably
never will be answered, the
only thing that is entirely content
with the pink, then clear white
morning and, gratefully, says so.

There is a wordless something in nature that communicates both nothing and everything, and sometimes we just need to drink it all in. (And then get back to the conversation before you’re missed.)