I have always secretly envied those among you who are able to identify birds by their song. Unless he’s singing “Fly Me to the Moon”, I can’t tell one feathered crooner from another. It’s really a shame, too, because the air is often filled with glorious and harmonious avian music. I can sit in front of a symphony orchestra and tell you if the second oboist from the right missed a single note, but when it comes to distinguishing bird songs, I’m worthless.

My daughter gave me one of those Audubon clocks that makes a different call on the hour. That was a great gift, and I learned that chickadees always sound like they are fussing about something, and titmice make a sound that reminds me of my father calling in the dogs. Eventually, I could tell what time it was just by listening. Then trouble struck. The clock and the tape got out of sync. The robin sounded like an owl and the woodpecker honked like a Canadian goose. I’d fix it, and all would be well for awhile. Then, without warning, there’d be drumming at kingfisher o’clock and cawing at half past oriole. It finally just stopped working all together. Except occasionally, out of the blue, it will randomly make a sound, startling me, and leaving me to guess which bird it is. At least the clock still keeps good time!

Unlike proverbial good children, my birds have a talent for being heard and not seen. It’s very frustrating. There’s a tenor in the deep woods, who fills summer evenings with the most exquisite 6-note melody I have ever heard. It sounds like a flute solo that is so perfectly clear and pure that I want to weep. I don’t know what he is, but I’m betting he has all the ladybirds in a swoon. I try to hike towards him, binoculars at the ready, but he toys with me. He stops, and then starts up again when I turn back. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you!

I guess it really doesn’t matter in the long run. I have learned to enjoy the serenade without an appreciation for the individual performers. Regardless of who’s singing what, when I fill the birdbaths and feeders, they are all chirping “we love you”. There is one sassy little rascal, however, that I would give anything to unmask. Without fail every morning when I leave the house, dressed in my best corporate finery, there is a lone hidden songster who whistles, “Pretty-Pretty”.

And I, of course, respond, “Thank you-Thank you”!