Rev. Ken Dill

No alarm was set so my view slowly adjusted from the inside of my eyelids to my bedroom ceiling.

Rain pelting the siding told me that the attire I laid out last evening for early morning birding needed to be amended. But I could not get a second to my motion.

I know where my rain-suit is. Fortified with coffee and the right apparel, I have birded in all kinds of conditions. But today the flesh is weak. The committee in my head tabled the motion. By a unanimous vote it was decided that I would bird from my bed. Not by sight, but by sound.

My flesh thanked the committee.

I propped open the window by my bed. The sash weights long ago divorced the rope and pulley and have settled into single life in the casing. With no help-mate the window will not stay raised and must be propped. An old shoe, a book, a wooden coat-hanger—whatever is close will do. This morning it was a lint roller.

I didn’t need an open window to hear the incessantly loud call of the Carolina Wren from the whorled leaves of a Chinaberry tree. “Peup-peup-peup-tew-tew-tew-tew-mew!” said the lady with the white eyebrows. Maybe the noise will keep the Brown-headed Cowbird from bothering her nest.

A Tufted Titmouse called for Peter. I imagined him flying from the Wild Cherry tree to the birdfeeder. He has no trouble shooing away the House Finches who slow up the buffet line.

Then it was the metallic clicking of Northern Cardinals and the whinnying of American Robins.

The more I centered myself in their space, the more I could hear.

The whistling wings of the Mourning Doves meant the pair was flying up to perch. Their bobble headed walking gave way to smooth ascent. Because it is spring, even a steady rain cannot keep their cooing from wooing.

My mind started to wander, fretting what I was missing by not being in the field. What about the migrants I might glimpse? Perhaps a Rose-brested Grosbeak? A Fox Sparrow? Maybe a Kentucky Warbler?

A Blue Jay flew by the window with a warning of “Thief!” Like a yogi’s mantra it centered me and I was mindful of the present and entered again the activity of listening.

There it was. “Chewink!”

And again, “Chewink!”

An Eastern Towhee. Early on you learn the distinctive “Drink your Tea!” invitation it extends while shading in the bushes. It is a moment of pride when you can also identify it by its “Chewink!” call. In my mind I can see it on the ground under the feeder. Alongside the Dark-eyed Junco it depends on the trickle-down economics of the feeding tray.

From under the Magnolia tree I heard the sounds of smacking, the kind your lips make. It reminds me of a child kissing the forehead of their newly-birthed sibling. Smack. Lips. Kissing. My mnemonic for the Brown Thrasher. Barrel chested with curved bill it tosses leaves like an old-school wrestler. Nothing stands in its way for breakfast.

My dog moves and stretches. She wonders why she has not been let out yet. I sympathize with her predicament and know that it is time for both of us to get going.

It has been a good morning of birding.

I didn’t even touch my binoculars.