It's probably been there all along and somehow I just never noticed. With Covid having reduced our daily pace from frantic and frenzied to somewhat placid and peaceful, there are more pauses, more deep breaths, more hushes, and many more breezes in the treezes. As a result, I’ve been spending more time on my balcony and out in the yard lately, enjoying this beautiful, long-awaited spring.
As this is our third mountain spring, I have by now grown accustomed to the constant tree-chatter. Our bedroom is on the third floor, and with the windows open we get a bird's-ear perch for the morning chorus. Now, much in the same way that one learning a new language goes from hearing a flowing stream of sound, to identifying syllables, and soon, words, I have come to understand that much of the sky song I had been hearing was coming from a single virtuoso.
As this is our third mountain spring, I have by now grown accustomed to the constant tree-chatter. Our bedroom is on the third floor, and with the windows open we get a bird's-ear perch for the morning chorus. Now, much in the same way that one learning a new language goes from hearing a flowing stream of sound, to identifying syllables, and soon, words, I have come to understand that much of the sky song I had been hearing was coming from a single virtuoso.
It rings out from the trees; five or six short bursts of melody, each sung-syllable unique, but strung together like a necklace of precious pearls. This ballad is followed by a silence just as long as it's tune, and then a new refrain warbles and trills; a new strand of pearls, the same bright tones, but arranged in each phrase differently. Sometimes, somewhere off in the distance, there is an answering call, similar but not the same to the one nearby, that fills the silent spaces perfectly. A sonorous Yin and Yang. Kindred carolers.
I have become obsessed with trying to see this magical musician. Certainly, it must be one of the beautiful, bright-orange sky dancers, or yellow breasted lovelies I have seen dashing from tree to tree. Maybe the one with the sleek black head and dove grey chest, or perhaps the darling with peachy cheeks and stripes on its wings that can only be seen when it’s flying.
But alas, try as I might, I could never see my mystery cantor.
I had to go about this differently! I reached out to my friend, Roy, a wild bird aficionado. He was the one who helped me identify the marvelous White Kite with red eyes that had floated above the trees, motionless, coasting on the wind as though held in place with an invisible string. As large as a hawk, it glided in stunning contrast to the Mediterranean blue sky. Roy would know.
I sent him a recording, then waited.
He answered.
"It sounds like a robin, but could be a Rose-breasted Grosbeak. More likely a robin."
No, no, no, no. Unacceptable. How could my marvelous minstrel, my bold and booming songster be a common (with-a-lower-case-R) robin? They are the worm-pullers in every coloring book and cartoon, the pot bellied old men of the bird world. How uncouth. This breed is a step above the pigeon and a notch below the grackle, and if you don't know what that is, just look around any Walmart parking lot. You'll see them fighting over cold french fries.
I refuse the verdict. I deny the diagnosis. I rebuff the ruling! I vote grosbeak. At least. If not something much more elegant and exotic (and without the word gross in it's name). I have caused myself many a disappointment in life from my elevated expectations. You'd think I'd learn. But I held out hope for something special.
But I looked it up. It was.
It was just a common robin.
I will allow you to be shocked and disappointed at my reaction, as in the ensuing days I certainly have become. There is nothing wrong with common, and it's actually pretty amazing when something sort of regular and normal steps up to being magical. Who knew there was a clandestine crooner there all this time, bellowing it's bright tones from within the branches of a tree not 10 feet from my window, disguised as a common robin.
A few days after his first text, Roy sent a follow-up. He was responding to my comment that I was surprised at having never heard these lovely songs, despite seeing these birds my whole life. He said that he is hearing them all the time now too, but he thought it was just happening in Utah.
Perhaps they have always been there. Maybe the robins haven't changed, but we have finally slowed down enough to listen, to actually hear them.
I don't know, but I think the Robin just earned itself an uppercase R.
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