“…the dawn chorus would subside in another hour, but the wood thrush would persist for a long time into the morning, then pick up again in the early evening or even at midday if it was cloudy… she lived with the wood thrushes for company…” Prodigal Summer, Barbara Kingsolver
As Richard was preparing dinner in the kitchen the other day, he called to me, “Do you know what a red-winged blackbird sounds like?”
“Well yes, I do…”
“Come listen to this, then, and tell me if this is a red-winged blackbird."
It takes me a minute to turn around from in front of the computer and maneuver the knee scooter so I can get on it and into the kitchen, thinking that by time I get there the bird will have shut up and flown away.
But no, just as I arrive at the counter next to him, I hear it.
Not a red-winged blackbird, although I can understand why he might think it is. No, what we are hearing is the clear flute-like song of the wood thrush.
Years ago when we attended a church that had a rather late service in the mornings, we ate breakfast in bed and watched the Sunday Morning program hosted by Charles Kuralt. I remember one program ending with a video segment of some woods where a wood thrush was singing, with the voice over lamenting that the habitat of this bird was shrinking and wondering if the song of this bird would someday be silenced.
Perhaps in some places this has come true, but not here, not on our little bit of land in south central Missouri.
The last thing I heard last night before I fell asleep was the noise of incredibly loud fireworks being set off by our neighbor. I assume these were the full-size skyrockets or else firecrackers the size of hot dogs. I remember how much fun July 4 was when I was a kid, and I am very happy they were enjoying the fireworks with their children and also that they stopped by 10 p.m.