March 2025 SOLC–Day 23
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click click click

The sound pulls me out of my notebook. Is that a bird call of sorts or a bird rebuke? Do I need to fill the feeders?

I tune in. The Carolina wren doesn’t disappoint, releasing its buoyant call, and seemingly within moments, bird song erupts from all over the yard. It crescendos and soon there is a full chorus of song. A burst of trills and calls before the sun has even cleared the horizon. This joyous morning spring chorus never fails to make me smile.

I take the hint and move outside to fill the feeders, then remain outside to watch the wren. It perches atop the tangle of wisteria vines. Periodically, it tilts its head back and sings, a full feathered vibration from head to tail, its entire body engaged in song making. (Click on the photo if you want to hear its song!)

Every morning I have a front row seat to a free symphony. All I have to do these days is tune in. So I stay outside, in my robe and slippers, and let the bird song wash over me–my shoulders relax and shift downward. The omnipresent weight of stress lightens and drifts away. I listen to the wren, and watch the aerial parade of birds–cardinals, jays, mourning doves, titmice, juncos, chickadees, nuthatches, house finches, and more! Beneath the feeders, the gorgeous russet fox sparrows scratch through the leaf litter. I thrill at the sight of these infrequent visitors.

Then, through the trees, I see a flash of white and a muscular pulse of large wings. Is that an eagle? I walk slowly over to the side yard and Yes! It is! I watch a bald eagle settle into the top of a nearby pine. Standing there, I hear the call of geese, now winging northward, and watch their V fly overhead through a crisscross of overhead branches.

Eventually I wander out back and see a flash of blue. Oh! A bluebird is at the birdhouse. Will he nest? He pokes his head in and out, scoping out its potential. I marvel at his indigo feathers and warm rusty chest.

A quick glance reveals that the eagle departed while I wasn’t watching. Meanwhile, the Carolina wren continues to sing. It’s changed its location, but I can still hear it, and the red bellied woodpecker calls repeatedly from the tall trees in the front yard. I can’t see either of them now amidst the tangle of trunks and branches. Still, the knowledge of their presence, and their song, is a gift. When I take the time to listen.