Bird vocalizations can generally be separated into songs and calls. Typically songs are the music of courtship, heard almost exclusively in the spring. Birds use calls for basic communication. They tell each other things like, “there’s food over here,” or “stay away,” or “danger!” Songs are usually melodious and sometimes complex, very often providing conclusive identification of the species audibly. Calls tend to be chips and twitters, often similar between species. Even after years of experience it takes some real chutzpah to claim to be able distinguish between the chip notes of most sparrows. A few calls are distinct enough to distinguish like the lispy chip of White-throated Sparrows or the nearly ultra-sonic squeal of an agitated Tufted Titmouse. Agitation is often a reason for calls. Ironically, when a large congregation of small birds chip and twitter together in a scolding tone it doesn’t matter if you can identify the noisy birds since they are aiding you in identifying a silent one. Hearing a racket coming from chickadees, titmice and nuthatches in the yard a week ago I scrambled for my binoculars in hope of seeing the bird that had upset them. Typically this would mean seeing an Eastern Screech-owl roosting, but this time of year it could equally likely be a Saw-whet Owl. I saw neither, but just because I didn’t see an owl didn’t mean there wasn’t one there.The experience reminded me of the words of a wonderful spiritual: “Over my head, I hear music in the air. There must be a God somewhere.” What a sublime expression of hope! Hope is a precious commodity, too often in limited supply. Our lives are enriched and empowered when we can allow simple gifts like the songs of birds lift our spirits and confirm our belief in God. Harriet Freeman was a person who knew both how to receive and give these simple gifts. When we were laying her to rest at the cemetery last week I could hear bird calls including the high squeal of a titmouse. I had to agree, none of us, even the birds, wanted to let go of her. And then, on some unseen signal, the whole flock took off over our heads. I’m convinced that they were Harriet’s companions on her flight to that place where God lives, our true home.
