She emerges from the dark horizon and slips silently up through the trees to the east if I stand in the backyard early enough.
Except for the traffic it is silent out here, although traffic is the sworn enemy of quiet, and not an early birder's best friend either.
Still, as the sky begins to blush with just the tiniest hint of apricot creamsicle, a woodcock makes his presence known and then another follows. And there you have it. Reason enough to be watching a distant planet slowly pop up among the passing jets and waning stars, even if it is colder outside than the inside of the refrigerator.
I mean, seriously, imagine having a fat sandpiper swirling around your backyard playing a tune with the wind that whistles through his wings, just barely audible over the sound of trucks and planes and trains. Imagine two of them.
The darkness melts slowly away, the buildings rising out of it as if a tide receded. Whadda ya know? They were there all along.
I learned this morning that robins seem to have a four-note contact call that they all mutter from their assorted sleeping places, somewhat as if they were clearing their throats before beginning their songs. I can tell where each one roosted last night and count them easily before the chorus begins and the voices all merge.
The Song Sparrows chime in, a Carolina Wren whinges about his tea kettle, and Venus breaks above the tree line.
And it gets too cold for this old lady. There is coffee indoors and none out here, and no more hearing of woodcocks over the raucous dawn chorus.
So I go in to partake and wonder. Is that thing I hear that sounds like screeching metal out near the wood stove, a female Barred Owl solicitation call or a nightmare neighing in the dark? I only hear it ONCE each time I go backyard owling, so I may never know...but hey, it's fun to wonder.
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