That bird call…there it was again.
Six notes, a three-note phrase repeated twice. Argh. I knew what it was, but I didn’t. Three notes, the second lower than the first, and the third higher than both of the others.
Was it a robin, claiming its territory from high atop the neighbor’s house? Or the mockingbird, who oftentimes sits at the same perch, sounding just like, well, a bunch of different birds? No, I didn’t think so.
I knew it wasn’t a cardinal, as a cardinal’s voice is just a touch deeper. Maybe a wren. We have a lot of those, and wrens are possibly the loudest tiny bird in the world. But, no, I didn’t think so.
I knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a jay, loud and obnoxious, its beauty–in my opinion–more in its appearance than its song. It wasn’t a brown thrasher, rarely seen above knee height as it races across open spaces.
Not a mourning dove, and not one of the ubiquitous sparrows whose specific species I’ve never been able to identify. Not a titmouse, with its peter peter peter call, and not a towhee, encouraging me to drink my tea.
Not a grackle or a starling, as it was a solitary voice. Bluebird or house finch? No, I didn’t think so.
I’ve written before about sitting at my kitchen table, watching the birds that occupy the area around our house, and that’s where I was, listening to the birds. The particular bird whose song I was enjoying was just above the line of vision allowed by the window. Singing, and singing.
I knew I would feel foolish, but I had to go and look. Pushing my chair back in, I slowly walked out the back door so as not to scare my avian vocalist.
A chickadee. Most likely you’ve already been saying that, reader of mine. Chick a dee chick a dee. Chick a dee chick a dee.
I knew that.