Here in the prison yard there is a thrush which sings beautifully in the morning, and now in the evening too.—Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Saws are grinding in the morning sunlight—a compact tractor in Paradise's green.Noise rushes inside the ear's small shell, and outagain. The bees swim in it. The petals onthe neighbor's tree drop into its vibrant flowand are pulled away. The sunlight stays.I write to you such things because they areand because, in a car with a broken radio,you hear something. Like a mountaintop and likethe sea, your silent car—but better than each,less traveling. A marked absence of song.Gone the ringing saws, the meanness of mind.Time for the cantata you would like to sing.