Comes the Day

Some of my favorite summer sounds – green frogs, and field and woodland katydids are echoing together in the darkness. “Do they sing all night?” I wonder.
Yes and no, I find, as I am awakened by a pair of barred owls calling in the wee hours of the morning. The katydids are quiet, but the green frogs sing on.

The woods are almost silent in the blackness. Except for intermittent rustles in the underbrush, I hear nothing on my way to the bench beside Beaver Pond. Hidden from my eyes, tiny creatures go about their nocturnal business. Do they see me pass by?

Eastern wood peewees are the first to awaken, as the last star disappears into the dawn. Faint chip notes at first, as though the birds are stretching and slowly opening their eyes, not quite ready for the morning. And then, the full peewee song from somewhere on my right, only the one. Soon, another calls from across the water. In answer or just coincidence? Long before others begin to sing in the day, these two converse, on and on. “What is their story?” I muse.

The stillness is broken by a loud unseen splash, followed again by stillness. I am resigned to how often I miss seeing the event that produces pond noise. Usually, I see ripples but the principle player is gone. This time, a beaver emerges from the mist, on a zigzag path towards its dam, mouth full of…what? He heaves himself onto the dam’s slope and disgorges his heavy load of mud and plant matter, carefully patting it into place. Otter-like, he slides back into the water and with a quiet “kerplunk”, dives for another load. How long into the daylight will he work?

I wondered when they would show up. “So, soon?” I sigh.  At least their buzzy droning, closer and closer to my face and ears, holds promise that the phoebes and eastern kingbirds might soon break their fast and eat well. Even for this irritating swarm, I give thanks.

A momentary lull in the morning’s progression invites more questions. What causes that “clacking” sound, seemingly coming from a patch of water lilies? What are those tiny dust-like particles that cover the pond’s surface, seen only at first light? Those two shapes on far-off logs appear to be green herons. Did they sleep there through the night?

As the water now reflects the surrounding trees, the full chorus begins. Robins squabbling, belted kingfishers rattling, catbirds mewing, chickadees chattering, kingbirds’ staccato calls and goldfinches’ musical ones, all in a shared litany of recognition that the work of survival is about to begin, yet again. The kingfishers are the first to fly in and noisily take their positions, except that they don’t seem to know which positions to take and fly repeatedly, and loudly, from branch to branch. Do they really go through this ritual every morning?

Finally, the chittering of barn swallows! Four of them appear, seemingly from nowhere. Just these four, for a few minutes the pond all to themselves. Suddenly, the air space is full of zipping and diving silhouettes as the rough-winged and tree swallows begin their aerial foraging, twittering on the wing. Gliding and dipping, as in an intricate dance, they avoid collision. What sense guides their movements?

What have I missed while studying the swallows? Young Baltimore orioles feeding in the autumn olive above the beaver dam, warbling vireos singing out their melodies across the way, the two green herons croaking and chasing one another from log to log, vying for the best fishing spot and, “Yes!”, now most of the pond’s perches host the phoebes, kingbirds and peewees who have been waiting for just the right moment to commence their breakfast search.

Now, an hour into daylight, the mingled voices of an avian choir echoing from above, the beaver makes a final trip to the dam, pats down its last bit of earth, turns and swims purposefully away. Another day has fully come to Beaver Pond.