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| Mockingbird by
Andy Morffew. |
Mockingbirds may be my muse.
(Or maybe I just like that alliteration.)
The singing of birds bring joy.
There is joy in the musicality.
There is joy in the gift of hearing.
There is joy in that the singing is simply present - we don't have to hunt for it, find that right channel, that right app, that right song, download it, look at a screen for it, plug it in, recharge it, or venmo it.
No, the birdsong is for the birds; our bystander enjoyment of their conversations is a serendipitous side effect.
A reason I chose my Opelousas apartment back in 2015 was that, just outside a living room window was a tree, and on that tree was a melodic mockingbird.
And there were the conversational tunes from the mockingbird outside my bedroom window in Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia.
In Birmingham, Alabama, which I left only a few days ago, there was a pair of mockingbirds in the front yard outside my living room windows, quite talkative, though not as melodic as their kin in Louisiana or Caucasus Georgia. They seemed more interested in succinctly pronouncing their claim to the yard in case squirrels or other birds had eyes for any of the juicy menu items the yard offered.
But I am polyamorous when it comes to birds and their songs.
The mourning doves' low talking in Alamogordo, New Mexico, made for an audio wallpaper at home:
(Not that I didn't sometimes wish the doves weren't quite so chattery.)
In COVID's early days, I sometimes surrendered to the joy of birdsongs gathered by kind souls, such as these:
- One hour: Morning Bird Song
- Two hours: Forest Birdsong
- Three hours: Bird Sounds
Listening to these birdsongs from my past writings remind me that even in times of profound sorrow or fear or uncertainty, one can feel moments of joy.
We can immerse ourselves in birdsong, like a restorative soak in a bath.
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