I am up before 5:00 in the morning, sitting on the back porch, waiting. The fading night is cool, and I have my jacket hood up like a monk waiting for Vigils. From the middle of March through yesterday, robins chanted at this time of the morning, a persistent, singsong chirping.
But...this morning, like yesterday morning, everything is quiet. I have become so accustomed to the robins’ presence, to their routine and to their language. Now I strain to hear their song, but it is not there.
Each year their silence is timed so precisely, almost to the exact day. They understand the time of year so well.
And even though I know better, I feel empty, as though the robinsong might never come again. Trying to compensate, I sort through what else is happening:
The moon shadows are weakening, and the first cardinal sings at 5:40, the first dove at 5:45. The eastern sky grows a pale gold, and almost everything seems to be the way it should be. The cardinals grow louder. Mosquitoes start to whine around my face and hands.
I gather up the new sensations and put them in the space of robinsong, filling in the absence until finally my reason takes hold and I regain my balance.
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will’s Almanack. I'll be back again next week with more notes on the seasons. In the meantime, it's not too late to hear the other Dog Day birds. Listen for them whenever you wake up.
