There are some things that never change, no matter where you live – even though my apartment is in a relatively industrial area, around the corner from a seemingly endless stretch of warehouses, the cacophony of spring still reaches my bedroom in the morning.
I think this is probably true of most people’s houses – even living where I do, I’m fortunate enough that there are a few trees in front of my building.
I think that you’d be hard-pressed to find any part of this city where there weren’t at least a few trees on the block.
And of course, where there is habitat you can find – and hear – feathered singers of all varieties.
Many of the voices I hear in the morning, interestingly enough, are the same ones I heard upstate.
Robins, sparrows, chickadees, mourning doves and the occasional cardinals all join in the chorus that has filled my living room at the start of each day after the frost has begun to melt and the days grow longer.
These are many of the same birds I’d heard each spring growing up in the Northeast.
They pass on some of the very songs I heard when I was living far away in a cottage and sat up in bed to a lake view every morning, or served as an alarm each daybreak when I called a tent my home.
Like a chorus of old friends singing “Good Morning!” each day – not precisely the same, but similar enough that I derive comfort from it.
If you think the birds aren’t singing where you are too, perhaps you don’t listen closely enough.