![]() ![]() So, just when the chorus of morning birdsong began to swell to a full crescendo, the sounds started to break apart. We also have flying squirrels nesting in two of our nest boxes, as they did last summer and the summer before that. I presumed they may not be singing because the female was sitting on eggs. I did hear one of them singing over the past couple days. I saw them too, but then I haven’t heard or seen them much since. Within a few days, my visiting brother noticed that a pair of the flycatchers had been frequenting the nest box. Weeks ago, I found that our large wood-duck-type nest box was filled with nothing but strips of birch bark. They sing almost constantly, but I guess not at this time of the day.Īnother element absent from the chorus was the great-crested flycatcher. Throughout the day, the bubbly and buzzing sound of these tiny little birds is easily heard from a good distance away. Perhaps they were squawking about the sun taking away their cover that is so easy to find in the darkness of night.Īn interesting absence was that of the sound of one, and perhaps two, pairs of house wrens that have taken up residence in a small birdhouse and our much larger purple martin apartment building. Way in the distance, I could hear crows cawing at the coming of the daytime. His nasal call notes were answered by a robin who was now singing nearby. What was unexpected was a white-breasted nuthatch, another bird I have neither seen nor heard for weeks around the yard. Then a red-eyed vireo joined in, not an unexpected addition as he is heard almost all day long singing his familiar “see me, here I am” song. He and his lovely mate had stayed throughout the winter and were now evidently nesting in our neighborhood. What the chorus lacked in members, those who sang were quite accomplished – none greater than a male northern cardinal whose singing seemed like it could be heard for a mile. Typically, those are April into early July affairs, so even if there was to be some singing, I expected it to be sparse. I wasn’t anticipating I’d hear a dawn chorus of songbirds because it seemed late in the summer for that. The next to come was a little flea, danced a jig with the bumblebee, M-hm, M-hm. He began what was to become like the story described in the singing of the old traditional “Froggy Went A-Courtin'” song which describes, one-by-one, the guests to arrive at Froggy’s marriage to Miss Mouse. But here, in the early morning hours, he was the first one up and singing with his raspy and repetitive “fee-bee” song. This was an eastern phoebe, a bird that I have not heard singing around the yard in weeks. It was one of the so-called “name-sayers,” birds whose songs or calls sound as though they are saying their names – as in chickadees. The quiet pooled back in and swirled around everything. The rush appeared to be underway, albeit only in a preliminary fashion. Within a minute or two later, I heard another. I turned back to my work and heard a car running up the county road headed into town. There is a palpable sense that a great deal of activity is about to take place, but those pre-dawn hours are a peaceful interlude that hangs over everything, like molasses dripping off anything – sweet and thick. In this case, the storm would be humanity rushing and scurrying to get to work and every other place determined subjectively to be necessary. It’s not something easy to explain, but perhaps I could liken it to a calm before a storm. There is a rare quiet then that differs from those at other times of the day. I try to be sure to experience the hours around dawn at least once each year but end up doing so on several occasions. This appeared to be in the dreamy range of Goldilocks days when everything seems to be “just right.” This was not to be a scorching day, nor a decidedly humid day either. My attention was distracted toward the window with each soothing gust that rushed across my body as I typed. It was a cooling sensation, but the air also smelled sweet bringing me an added bonus pleasantness.įloating in on that air were the first hints of light in the sky as the dawn was slowly beginning to break. ![]() I guess it was about a half hour later that a wonderful breeze began to kick up and pour through my window screen and across the confines of my room. I imagined the bird positioned like a battleship somewhere out there on the waters of the lake, keeping both eyes peeled for any potential approaching danger. The scene was still quite dark, and the only sound was an occasional tremolo from a loon wavering through the cool early morning air. ![]()
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