The Small Ceremonies of Bird Song
The Chipping Sparrow has a melodic rattle, almost metallic but with enough recognizable naturalness to know its a creature rather than machine.
The Carolina Chickadee sings volumes above its size. A small, slight bird that can still compete not only with birds three times its size, but with lawn equipment as well.
The Eastern Towhee and Phoebe speak their presence. “Drink your tea,” sings the Towhee, while the Phoebe reminds you of their name.
Thrushes have the ability to sing two notes at the same time. Unlike other bids, thrushes have a syrinx or a voicebox with two pipes. As a result, they are able to sing “independently and simultaneously from each half.”
The result is an otherworldly song, starting low and cresting in a threading of almost echos. The two songs seemingly compete and then meld, both breathless and full-throated. There’s a point near its height when the song feels like it will end on an incomplete note, but a final trill ties it all together.
Song plays an important role in the bird’s life. At certain points, the bird’s song is likely used to establish territory or attract a mate. It could also be their song is used for reasons beyond our ability to understand. Each song a small ceremony in the bird’s day. A vocalization with purpose, even if (and perhaps especially if) that purpose is beyond our comprehension.
I think then of the purpose of my own words. Most of them carry little meaning. Some bear a heavy weight. All play a part in the small ceremonies of my life—they help me establish boundaries, create connections, and make sense of the world.
It also strikes me the way words can carry meaning for some while being largely incomprenishble to others. But, like bird song, a lack of understanding by one hardly negates the importance for the other. Ours is to listen and appreciate, to settle into the incomprehension. To know that though the world isn’t for us, we’re still very much a part of it.
Because bird song isn’t for us to understand. They aren’t communicating with us, in the same way my words aren’t for them. We live two independent lives simultaneously.
A summer evening in the south carries a certain otherworldlyness to it. The world seems to slow down, a stillness deepens, but only in the sense of movement for the cicadas ramp up in a syrncorized rise and fall of their rattling call. The sun seems stuck in the lower third of the sky, the light filters through the trees.
Above and through the cicada’s rattle, two Hermit Thrushes call to one another. Their songs mingle in an ethereal call and response. A fitting end to the day.
Though I understand the how of their song, the why remains out of reach. And I’m content being on the periphery of a mystery, on being the least important thing in these woods. Largely ignored as they attend to their small ceremonies.
