A redbird calling with the dawning of eastern skies is nature announcing it’s the season to arise. Soon other unseen singers send notes drifting with the wind; a chorus of birdsong even in the rain, mysteriously sweet and melodious to the human’s discerning ears.
There are some of our feathered neighbors that seem to sing of awaiting riches, others of glory, but it’s the love songs that come in the lonesome predawn darkness of the spring night that offer the secluded sweetness of the familiar refrain. And there is one that sings as many, the mockingbird perched beneath our window singing hymns to the morning stars. And the mind hears the verses that date back over generations, “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, mama’s gonna to teach you to sing like the mockingbird.”
The catbirds and thrushes, their throats filled with cheerful voice, also are singers in the dark, lit with song. And this is the hour when the nightingale holds forth from the highest bough. As John Keats wrote: “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! / No hungry generations tread thee down; / The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown.”