A winter wren darts low
over the rushing stream
and unwinds its hurdy-gurdy song.
Not all water-lovers
are bouyant in the same way.
The waterthrush walks
on the bottom, tail bobbing
as if spring-loaded. We stand
dripping in the rain.
Living with wrens: 40 years in Plummer’s Hollow
Teakettle, teakettle, teakettle chants the Carolina wren from my front porch, seemingly unfazed by this morning’s rain and gloom. I smile at what I can’t help hearing as irrepressible ebullience, though quite possibly to the wren its song conveys matters of urgency and deep seriousness.
August is the quietest time of the year for birdsong. The neotropical migrant hordes whose songs made the woods ring in May and June are mostly done raising their broods, and many species are in the midst of their molt and lying low. So the Carolina wren’s song is more welcome than ever — especially considering that we didn’t have any of them nesting around the houses this spring, for whatever reason. A couple pairs nested elsewhere in the hollow, Mom said, and are now dispersing, some to breed a second time this season. Which may very well be what my front-porch wren has been so excited about the last couple of days. Continue reading “Living with wrens: 40 years in Plummer’s Hollow”