Don’t Stop Singing

My neighbor told me the first thing he does when he wakes in the morning is throw open the door so he can hear the birds. At my home, the robins wake me at 4:30 with their insistent singing (“wake up, you sleepy head”) and then signal that I can go to bed around 8:30 at night.

Birds have always been a source of inspiration, but in this world of anxiety and distrust, more people are turning to birds as a source of pleasure, distraction and even sometimes exaltation.  I think of the New Yorkers who were captivated by a short-lived owl named Flaco who hunted for mice in Central Park. Here in Boulder County, several years ago officials built a platform near the fairgrounds for an osprey nest, and their progress has been avidly followed, making the front page news when one of their eggs hatch.

For most of our lives, birds were in the background. We may have noticed a flashy goldfinch or sparrows building a nest in the corner of the garage. But now people crave something that’s outside of our world. You only need to listen to a meadowlark (above), with its full-throated warbling, to start believing in beauty and purity again.

To us poor humans who can’t fly, the birds exist in a space where gravity doesn’t pull us down. I watch the violet-green swallows (above) make their dizzying swoops in the sky or the ravens slowly flap their wings above me, as if surveying their kingdom. The hummingbirds make me laugh with their frenzied chasing of each other (get out of my space!) and then in awe at their launch straight up and steep dives down, pulling up again before they hit the ground. Suddenly, my spirits lift.  

The house wren (right) fools you with its drab colors and boring name, but its song is one of the most beautiful around. And my Merlin app identified the ruby-crowned sparrow, a bird that hides in the upper reaches of the pine trees, letting its beautiful song float down to us humble humans. Once I heard it around the cabin, I heard it everywhere on my walks around Meeker Park.

It's not just robins that remind me to be more alert. Before the pasqueflowers disappeared, I went for a walk to savor their delicate beauty. But, as usual, my thoughts drifted off somewhere. Luckily, a jay arrived in the pine tree above me and loudly cawed: Wake up!

Birds seem to appear just when we need them. When my mother was dying, a hawk appeared in a tree across the alley from her apartment. After my father died, three sandhill cranes flew in circles above my two siblings and I after the funeral. Everyone I know has similar stories. What are these birds telling us? Especially, now in spring, when I’m at the cabin and surrounded by birds flying and singing, I feel like I’m being woven into a world I had forgotten that I belong to.

The downside of observing birds is that you notice when they’re gone. For two years in a row, I haven’t seen the mountain bluebirds (left), which previously hung out on fence posts around the open field. Nor have I seen the rare western bluebird, which once nested in the front yard, for many years. In the Wisconsin woods where I spent summers as a child, the whip-poor-wills’ lonesome cries can no longer be heard. We’ve lost so many birds over the past few decades that it makes you want to cry. Since 1970, three billion birds have disappeared across Canada and the U.S.—to habitat loss, climate change, cats and loss of insects, among other threats.

And yet, at night, before I go to bed, I listen one more time for the screech owl, its haunting call bouncing across the valley and through the pine trees. And then listen for the returning call. It’s still there. It hasn’t disappeared yet.  

 

Comments

[Pied Type]

Such lovely memories this entry provoked.

Just this spring, more so than in years past, I was absolutely delighted to hear my first robin. I don't know why it was so special this year, but it was.

My first experience with hummingbirds was as a kid in a meadow somewhere up toward Allenspark. I thought they were giant buzzing bees or wasps!

As a child in Oklahoma, I often "watched a hawk makin' lazy circles in the sky." And outside my bedroom window there was always a cardinal nest. My great sadness, birdwise, is that sometime after I moved to Colorado, I realized it was the only place I've ever lived where there are no cardinals.

That mountain bluebird is absolutely exquisite. I'd love to have seen one and hope they are still around someplace.

[Sally Hanson]

Made me reminisce for my days camping 🏕️, living in the mountains 🏔️ and just blending into my surroundings as the friends they were😊

[Julene Bair]

We are blessed to share the world with birds and you remind us of that with your beautiful descriptions of the thoughts and feelings they inspire in us. Thank you.

[shoney]

Great post as always----I really love those photos!

[Kathy Kaiser]

Susan, I'm glad to hear that this post evoked your bird memories. I just had my niece visiting from Chicago, and she thought, like you, that the hummingbirds were some large insect. They move so fast that you can hardly see what they are.

I grew up in Illinois where cardinals were plentiful, and I never appreciated them until I moved out here. When I went back for visits I was amazed by their clear songs. On nature net, I've been hearing reports of rare sightings of the cardinal, so it might just be a matter of time, like it was with the blue jays, before they arrive.

And I'm glad to report that since I wrote the blog I've seen a few bluebirds at the cabin--what a treat!