Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul -
and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
- Emily Dickinson
The sun is going down, its rays brought home to roost. I inch toward the window and raise my face, squinting at the edge of the back garden. The shadows have begun to lengthen. The night is quiet.
Then a chatter begins to throb in the darkness. A trio of baby squirrels who have claimed the neighbor's wood pile for their playground are skittering away. The crickets, joined by one bellowing frog, are serenading the stars with their evening melody.
Above, in the clump of green ash trees, their leaves shimmering with imaginary breeze, I sense the pulsing rhythm of movement and echoes. I perk up to the red-winged blackbird calling, Conk-la-ree, counterpointed by the fast trill with a very sharp staccato quality of gathering blackburnian warblers.
Chirr, chirr. Fat, orange-breasted robins gab in their nest, the sound rising in volume like a chuckle from the dogwood tree overhead.
I scrunch up my brow when inside my field of peripheral vision, a bird calling, Dee-dee, goes past, but then my eyes light up in recognition. It's a chickadee, I can tell, because of its dee notes. The song sparrows on the ash-leaf maple tree branch look irritated and fly off. An impish grin lights up my knowing gaze. They're stuttering their displeasure at being disturbed.
At a distance, a mourning dove calls out its low, fluted notes into the blackness. I screw my face up in concentration, but turn around quickly with a half-smile to the rushing sound of wings as a meadowlark lands, and swifts and pigeons glide their way and settle back on the eaves.
The yard has become an amphitheater resonant with the sing-song babbling of a winged throng. Espérance. Its spark and buzz are bursting with hope. I puff up my chest and beam.
It is my favorite season, when birds flock in the evening, making yet another casual stop on its endless way to the future.
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