Song of nature

I wrote this while sitting by the river/stream at Langdale the gay pickup bar park. It sounded really deep and awesome when I wrote it. Not so much now.

For some reason, sitting here at Langdale Park reminds me of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself." The birds sing for their souls here.

The birds sing of themselves, and every atom belonging to them as good belongs to nature.

Even the old fishermen's whistling fishing line cast out into the stream sings to nature's cricket beat.

"S'more rahleigh," he burst out.

"Whaz zat?" the other replies casting a glance over his shoulder, ankle deep in muck.

"I say," the first bellows in exaggerated patience, "Smaw won rye dere."

Another kerplop from his whistling line. The water ripples to infinity meeting infinity coming back.

And the crickets softly chime in.
And the birds harmonize.

And even the ants' frantic journey at parallels conduct the music.
Tiny maestros, numberless maestros whose sum is parts worth more than the whole.

And the fisherman casts his line--a whistled reply to the warbling birds.

And the river keeps flowing.
And tranquility reigns.
Kerplop to infinity.