As I walk out through the glass door of my office building and into the serene stillness of the parking lot, one clear voice shatters the silence.

At first the voice mildly annoys me. After hours of listening to the whirring of computer fans, the clicks of my keyboard and mouse, and the ringing of the telephone, these few seconds of precious quiet are a much-needed respite for my fatigued ears. After no more than a second, the annoyance is replaced by curiosity. I stop in my tracks, not wanting even the soft padding of my own footfalls to drown out the sound.

After a few moments, I see him, high above me on the branch of a tall loblolly pine tree. He is much too far away for me to discern much about his appearance, but his movements make it clear that he is the source of the strident calls. It’s difficult to believe how clearly and how reverberantly his small voice is carried to my ears.

His song is a marvel, his music beyond beautiful. He sings with no knowledge of notes, of key, of meter. Oval blobs spread across five lines on a piece of paper might somehow convey the vision of Bach or Brahms, but could not begin to do justice to this performance. He’s never had a lesson, but his innate talent argues eloquently for his professionalism.

I stand and listen for several minutes. The song changes frequently. New notes are added, new patterns form, and new rhythms emerge, and each is more interesting than the last. That such songs were being sung just outside the cage of glass and metal that imprisons me for most of the day seemed obvious. How many other things in life that mattered had been taking place just outside my window? How many had I missed? I would not miss this one. Just once, just for a few minutes, I would put all other business aside and give myself the time to enjoy this impromptu concert.

That songbird, I reason, probably has as much to worry about as I do. Civilization and deforestation encroach further and further into his habitat with every passing day. Predators, drawn to the very songs that captivate me, seek to end his life to nourish themselves. His very nature requires him to migrate hundreds of miles, twice yearly, to survive. He might even have a family to help feed, and a mate to protect and care for, and a nest to maintain. With all that on his little mind, he can take the time to find a comfortable branch, settle in, and sing. Can my life possibly be so badly prioritized that I can’t take the time to listen?

I stand in this parking lot with the potential of being jobless by week’s end. I have no health insurance due to my employer’s mismanagement, nor do my co-workers. I have health problems, I have debts, and as the middle years of my life slowly pass me by, I’m convinced that I’ve not accomplished a tenth of what I should have. This has caught up with me emotionally many times over the recent few weeks, and I have alternated between periods of dogged determination to do something positive and periods of sadness and dejected resignation. It’s been a dark time. Against that backdrop, even the dimmest of lights is a searchlight to me.

Presently, my searchlight finishes his song and raises his wings, flexing them powerfully and leaping from the branch. He dives to gain airspeed, his dark feathers glistening in the afternoon sunlight, and then he swoops toward me, soaring over the warmth of the asphalt. In a flash he passes over my head, crosses the roofline, and is gone.

I can only stand slack-jawed as I regard the majesty with which he flies. His grace and aplomb are as natural as his voice. I walk to my car slowly, honored and truly, unexpectedly awed and moved by the experience. I open the car door and get inside, starting the engine. The radio comes alive. The fan whirs. The engine hums. Life, as I’ve always known it, resumes.

For now.

I would like to acknowledge poet Marcie Hans and her beautiful poem, “Fueled”, from which I have borrowed the title of this piece.

Fueled
by a million
man-made
wings of fire-
the rocket tore a tunnel
through the sky-
and everybody cheered.
Fueled
only by a thought from God-
the seedling
urged its way
through thicknesses of black-
and as it pierced
the heavy ceiling of the soil-
and lauched itself
up into outer space –
no
one
even
clapped.