Birdsong

Unless I need to wake up at 4:00 a.m. to get to the airport, I do not use an alarm clock or any other wakening device.  Well, wait . . . perhaps my cat can be considered a wakening device when she asks to go out in the wee hours.  But my preferred method of waking up, other than "waking with the light," is birdsong.  The volume on this music is increasing daily, but other than the squawking of the crows and bluejays, it's all melodious and dreamy, a beautiful way to greet the day.

My daughter, the birder, could probably identify all the birds in the choir, but I only know a few.  The wrens amaze me with their soprano.  How so much sound can come out of those tiny bodies is just stunning.  The mournful coo of the dove is another bird sound that is easily identifiable.  This spring, I am noticing more mourning dove couples on my property, nesting in the rhododendron and a large pine tree.  Their ooOOoo . . . oo, oo, oo is haunting and soulful.  The sound sends me back to childhood, with a snippet of memory of me sitting on the front porch, listening to the cooing and recognizing that it matched my mood.  It was a precocious understanding of the loneliness of self.

But the sad sound of the doves is more than forgiven with the joyful chirp of the wrens.  I have four little birdhouses that the wrens called home two summers ago.  Despite my meticulous cleaning out of the houses last spring, no wrens moved in.  I am hopeful that they will move back in this spring to amuse me with their comings and goings, ever singing as they go about their homemaking and parenting, despite the watchful eyes of my cat.



So I am in love with birdsong, a love that will still be strong many months from now.  Good morning!