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Rehearsing for the Dawn Chorus

© Terrie Murray

It's late February. This morning the sun was out, and the forsythia blooming. And for the first time this year, I heard the tentative song of a dark-eyed junco. Not the common notes they whistle at each other all year, the song which greets the warming sun. The song which signals spring. They're rehearsing, and I can't wait for the performance.

A year or so ago the law firm where I work held an open house for our clients. In preparation for that, the marketing specialist we had hired gave us each a questionnaire to fill out so our clients could learn a little more about us - - things they might not know from our day-to- day phone conversations and meetings in court. One of the questions was "what's the one thing you absolutely cannot live without?" I wasn't taking the whole thing very seriously, so I didn't think about it for very long before I wrote "the dawn chorus in May." In retrospect, it may have been the most truthful thing I wrote.

Every year there are a couple of perfect mornings in May when the chorus is exceptional. The best way to hear it is to get away from town, and find a hill overlooking mixed habitats. A hill above a clear-cut bordering on forest and meadows is perfect. Get there before the sun has even begun to come up. 4:30 a.m. or so. Yes, I know it's early, but this is the dawn chorus we're talking about. The price of admission is worth the performance.

Walk quietly, and don't talk above a whisper - - if you must talk at all. The performers are wary and shy. They'll usually start with the finale of the night birds - - the last hoot of an owl, or the distant call of a poorwill. But the robins will start their cheer-e-up, cheer-e-oh song before the first rays of light ever start showing, and once they've begun it doesn't take long for the others to join them.

An orange-crowned warbler may sound its weak, descending trill from a high perch in a nearby tree. Winter wrens, tiny brown birds with an incredibly complex, fluid song which can go on for 20 seconds or more, sing from the heart of dense thickets. Warbling and Hutton's vireos call quietly from alders and willows. The pace is beginning to pick up, and the singers are beginning to compete for vocal honors.