Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Dawn Chorus


We had a soaking rain with high winds yesterday afternoon into the evening. The back yard is now an expanse of water and mud. I opened the window in my study this morning to hear the exuberant dawn chorus of the birds of early spring. Chief among that chorus is a song sparrow perched in some shrub along our fence. Among others I hear a robin, several juncos, cardinals, chickadee, white-breasted nuthatch, the incessant calls of crows, goldfinch, pine siskin, hairy woodpecker and a phoebe, newly arrived in the neighborhood, off in the distance. And another song--"brilliant and musical"--of a fox sparrow? Certainly not an oriole, it's too early yet.

(Photo from Google Image: Song Sparrow)

3 comments:

Sukie Curtis said...

Well, Dave...you beat me to it! I was noticing the birdsong from my morning corner while you were blogging about them from yours. It was stupendously loud this morning. Great contrast to the muddles and the mud!

tworoads said...

two comments:
1) I ventured out in the early morning air on tuesday to be greeted by the bird cacophony, There were a couple of distinct moments, one of which was the sight of a pair of geese swiftly passing throgh the morning light on their way north. Geese pairing up and heading north is a wonderful Spring sign. The other was the song of the Phoebe who is often our ealiest visitor and our latest visitor. Those both signaled the seasonal shift in very profound ways for me.

2) A piece from my/our friend Rupert which expressed similar love of Spring and its wonderful mystery. Rupe wrote "Saturday morning from my journal… in the fog, April 4, 2009…..

I was ready to be awakened today, from early on in the dark. Even though the weather appeared to be unchanged from several days of fog and rain, I was stoked… to be awake.

After a rolling boil for making coffee and marmalading a piece of toast, I listened to Garrison Keillor’s 6am Writers Almanac followed by an unexpectedly powerful playing of Capriccio Italian. At least I was powerfully affected by it. I even found myself moving with the rhythms, dancing as if no one could see me. My body was getting pumped up to get outside.

What I found… after walking down to the shore of the still ice-covered West Harbor Pond was … smells. Odors that I hadn’t tasted for months had wafted up out of the mud and thawing earth. The evergreens, of course, were especially pungent. I also heard in the distance a primal roaring from ocean waves, the conditions being just right to amplify their collisions with the ragged shoreline (no wind and fog). I grabbed my journal and Steve’s orange cushion and headed out to my church, All Saints By the Sea on the east shore of Southport Island. Shore enough… it was high tide, thus allowing for a kind of percussion effect as surges of swells slammed into solid rock barricades; amazing what a difference there can be when the tide is lower and vast ledges of seaweed soften the audio. There was also the sound of rivulets that had become full-fledged brooks from all the rain. And the birds… they were awake too.

Being alive and sensate on such a morning... is a privilege beyond description. "
I couldn't agree more with those words

David Heald said...

Hey Two Roads! Thanks for this and for adding Rupert's journal entry....