Neighborhood Noise

Sitting on my back porch tonight, listening to the birds serenade the setting sun, followed by the rain. I can hear a few cars pass and a few more dogs greet the nocturnal visitors to their yards. 

I got to thinking about the sounds of a place. When you first move to a new house, it’s the noise (or lack thereof) that strikes you. Every neighborhood has its own rhythm. In the two-family we started out in, we could hear kids playing late in the street, the family a few houses down arguing, car stereos with an excessive bass. When we moved to a farmhouse in Central Massachusetts, we heard a chorus of spring peepers and the occasional fisher cat.

The first thing that struck me about our house in Nabnasset was the birds. They wake us in the morning, oblivious to Saturdays, with a song reminiscent of my brother’s heavy metal days. I am amazed at the noise. Of course, every other house maintains bird feeders, and the row of bushes between our and our neighbor’s yard provides the perfect concert stage. So really, it makes sense that I have more feathered neighbors than even at that rural farmhouse. Aside from the occasional hawk and the danger of pesticides in gardens, a bird could hardly ask for a better gig.

I feel as if I should get to know these neighbors better. I can pick out the dove’s voice easily enough, and no once can mistake a crow for a robin. I thrill to the hummingbirds gentle hum on those rare visits to the garden. The cardinals have a delightful call that reminds me of friends yelling at the back door to come out and play – I imagine the cardinals calling friends for a game of chase.

But I don’t know who screeches every so often, making itself heard above the rest of the chorus. A diva in need of attention. And I don’t know the name of the beautiful little black bird I startled near the compost pile this afternoon. Nor can I pick out the song of the red-winged blackbirds. And, are those gray birds really called grackles or did my mother-in-law make up that name? (Either way – a fitting name for those invasive birds. Somehow, they make me think of the hoards of flying monkeys out to find Dorothy . . . but I digress.)

But, whether I can name them or not, the morning chorus is a part of my home. Their morning greeting says, “This is your place. You belong here with us. Now wake up and share some bread crumbs.”