My daughter sang softly this morning, respecting the sleep of others like a little nun, whispering her vespers to the dolls she cradled on a pillow in the middle of the kitchen floor. I savored her quiet, her voice like wings, delicate as branch-tips just beginning to crown with buds. Her song was the black throat of the chickadee, hopping from limb to limb, crested by blue sky like all the love that had been waiting once I stopped searching and started looking. But that’s the way the sky is. Always there, but still, a revelation on a spring morning when all is quiet enough to hear it hum. Suppose I had decided to stay childless? I'd be listening to the birds on the lines, desperate to find anything to make me feel as tender as my daughter so easily does, singing in hushed tones to her monkey and owl wrapped in a blanket of old towels.