June 9, 2012

Last night storms again.  A contrast to the night before, thunder in long rolling rumbles and great sheets of light, and the rain building up slowly to a downpour.  Something about rain that hard triggers a feeling of being closed in, surrounded, like the night before's gentler rain did not.  When the storm quieted I went to bed but I could hear another page of storms beginning to turn off in the distance, more thunder from the direction of the first storm.  I thought I would try to sleep in that quiet between leaves of storm, listening to the drips falling off trees in the yard.

This morning there is a tiny bird out there on the crepe myrtle making a really loud "Cheebee, cheebee, cheebee" song.  Such a huge voice to come from such a tiny bird.  I looked it up by sound and think it must be the tufted titmouse because it remarks on the echoing quality of the song and the sound is pretty close to what I heard, and the description seems to match.  I have a hard time deciding on a positive identification but between two of us observing, I think we have a good chance of this being a good identification.  Now if I could just figure out which one is the "cheater, cheater, cheater" one I would be happy about that.

This morning we live in a birdhouse, outside the singing goes on and on, not one of the nearly silent mornings, but one of those morning when nearby and far away you can hear a multitude of song, a natural symphony, rising and falling in its own rhythm, one filled with need and joy, two things human beings understand, though some days I think we understand need better than we do joy.

Birdhouse
       
In the garden a single rose,
and though it was a beauty, a brilliant red,
we'd hoped for more, an extravagance of buds,
blossoms, and blooms, visible from our empty house.
We settled for what we could get, then birds
came to the feeder and roused us
with song, music that pierced the heart under the ribs.
Cardinals, goldfinches, nuthatches-some kind of IOU?
a gift of compensation? Not one sour
note sounded from the garden bed.
Profusion of feathers, music, and the persistent scent of rose.

Diane Lockward

We do not have any roses in the yard, no flowers, but a bloom of birds opens every morning, sometimes a single song, some times like this morning a garden full, the small birds come to the water bowl and splash around, the ones I don't see still sing, even in the deep background crows are calling to each other.  I am glad to sit for this time and listen, amazed at so many notes.  It's a quiet joy I recommend, just noticing the songs that present themselves in the day, birds, and others, planes overhead, the hum of lawnmowers, cars on the road, no cicadas yet, still cool from the rainy night.  I am sure they will be added to the chorus shortly!