The Finch Formerly Known As Gold

22 April 2003

Wren cycle

This time of year, I generally emerge from the front door about ten minutes before sunrise, and there's a chorus to greet me: hundreds, maybe thousands, of local birds, some small, others not so small, all chirping and cheeping and twittering and those other verbs we use to make their sounds seem insignificant compared to our own. Two octaves of this stuff, staccato here, fermata there, a quarter-rest somewhere in the mix if you're really paying attention, and while I have to assume that most of them are oblivious to my presence — a few designated guardians have presumably issued an Intruder Alert, which I, the visiting dullard, cannot distinguish from the flow of conversation — there's still the sense that they're putting on a show, that they've waited all night for this.

Much is made these days about how our urban landscapes are supposedly inhospitable, even hostile, to life, usually from people who seem to believe that everybody should live in a facsimile of the San Diego Zoo. Life, of course, pays no attention to these people. And tomorrow, same time, same trees, the avian chorus resumes.

Posted at 7:26 AM to Soonerland