There was a moment this morning, as I stood under the trees, that I felt a little like Tippi Hedren.
There were more birds that I had ever seen. I'm not sure if it was because they had just flown in from up north and were as giddy as spring breakers in March, but the birds this morning were crazy, unable to sit still, chirping and trilling, looking this way and that, chasing each other through the trees.
They were frenetic.
All but one who sat low in the branches and let out a soft, rich in tone, whistle that I always associate with Florida. He did not chirp. He did not sing. If anything he sounded vaguely owlish.
I say I associate that sound with Florida because for the two summers that I spent here when I was a teenager and living with my grandparents, this was the sound that woke me every morning, not the sun streaming in through the windows, but this gentle cooing,
I never saw the bird, only heard it, but it's forever etched in my memory.
It's a sound that says, "Wake up. You are safe. You are loved. Get up. Stretch and breathe."
There were more birds that I had ever seen. I'm not sure if it was because they had just flown in from up north and were as giddy as spring breakers in March, but the birds this morning were crazy, unable to sit still, chirping and trilling, looking this way and that, chasing each other through the trees.
They were frenetic.
All but one who sat low in the branches and let out a soft, rich in tone, whistle that I always associate with Florida. He did not chirp. He did not sing. If anything he sounded vaguely owlish.
I say I associate that sound with Florida because for the two summers that I spent here when I was a teenager and living with my grandparents, this was the sound that woke me every morning, not the sun streaming in through the windows, but this gentle cooing,
I never saw the bird, only heard it, but it's forever etched in my memory.
It's a sound that says, "Wake up. You are safe. You are loved. Get up. Stretch and breathe."
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