Make no mistake, it's dark outside my windows right now, black-as-tar dark--all I can see is my reflection in the glow of the monitor above my computer. But they're out and up already--the dawn chorus is making music.
Mostly robins, I'd imagine. Robins we've got lots of. Every year they nest up in some elbow of the house. I haven't found that brush pile yet this year, but eventually it'll show.
The music is quite stunning, full of chatters and peeps and warbles. It would appear the black night is no reason to make melody, but they're at it, in a concert that, I'm told, is particularly seasonal, attributable to spring. It's all about mating, all about love. And that's just fine with me.
Their music is downright inspiring at some deep fundamental human level. Some birders claim the soloists most prone to start singing are those blessed with the biggest eyes, the first ones to spot or simply believe they spot first light.
I can't help thinking the world would be a better place if we'd use that pair of phrases more often: "a dawn chorus" at "first light."
Let me honor them with capitals because this morning I'm thankful for the anthem of hope they're piping. Their remarkable performance hits the stage, pestilence or not. Give a listen some time to the world renowned Dawn Chorus of First Light.
Deserves upper-case, don't you think?
Hope is the thing with feathers.
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