There isn’t anything, sonically, that connects me more to the outside world than birdsong.
Winter can be desolate and deafening in its comparative silence: it is definitely not barren.
Among the stillness, if you attune your ear, you can remark the life still abound in the season- and, some, that thrives only here- beyond the scratchings and skeleton trees that you may see. The world, year-round, is fleshed-out, you just have to take notice.
There are birds for every season. Some stay with you year-long, others are recurrent, returning friends.
The year is always alive in song, each month with its own symphony, whether swelling to sublime crescendo or ambling in a pensive sonata.
I hear the tenacious honk of a solitary goose and know that Spring is gracefully unfurling. Another time, early-morning on a Sunday, our winged companions of the sky softly stir as I rest a stomach of unease; 04:13, I lie with a smile playing on my face and drift into the sonorous, twinkling realm of sleep.
(Written Jan and Feb, 2018.)