Sounds in the garden. Bird song.
There’s the early morning spring trilling that causes one to peer at a clock, note the 3:45 a.m. time and think, “goodness, that is some ardent – or anxious! – Romeo.”
And later, those fluffy babies, with wings in rapid demand and mouths widely tch-tch-tch’ing about instant starvation if food is not immediately deposited, confirm that that suitor did indeed find a mate. (Come to think of it, I’ve heard similar sounds from teenagers dialling a pizza parlour.)
Also in the realm of bird serenades is the querulous aria that can go on and on. Often a refilling of the seed tray in the feeder is the applause needed to end the soliloquy but there are times when it just seems a bird has a grievance that needs to be vented. In such an instance I try for a sympathetic sigh.
A bird singing for the joy of singing heartens my glad. To be able to not only hear but also see that small soloist with head back, throat in a quiver, gazing on something outward or inward, adds something, somehow, to the experience. For me, at least. Probably for the bird, as well. Cloaked in bird song I dance through the day.
Garden sounds. Children playing.
When all the boys were small they dug numerous oceans and rivers and tunnels in a part of the garden left for such adventures. These started out as holes and valleys but the logical introduction of water enhanced their status – both the earth’s and the boys’ as neighbour kids saw, came, and joined in the fun. The delightful ‘noise’ of their laughter, exertions, arguments, mediations, and splashings (to wash off the mud!) has become part of my memory of summer gardens.
One hot and muggy July I hummed, busily, from dawn to dusk constructing a series of canals in my childhood backyard with the intention of transporting frogs from a local pond once this habitat was completed. But frogs never got to navigate or sing in this creation. My brother, rushing home through backyards, leaping over fences, running hopefully-on-time across what had been flat ground, in the daylight, fell into my little Venice. His howls were certainly lyrics in the garden but not what I had envisioned. Drat the kid.
Sounds in the garden. Insect ditties.
Paper wasps scritching endlessly, patiently, at a wooden surface to collect raw material with which to build their nests. You have to be within earshot to capture this ‘whisper’.
Bees buzzing. And an astonishing discovery. Oriental bees do not say, “buzzzzzzzzzz,” but “boooonnnnnnn”, told to me by a lady who has recently come here from Japan.. Now, this may be open to interpretation and I would have to go to Japan to verify the possible translation blip, but isn’t it fascinating to think Japanese bees speak Japanese and not some insect esperanto!
Sounds in the garden. Conversation between kindreds.
Three or more people can converse but, truthfully, communication usually only occurs between two individuals. And nature provides the perfect setting for such employment. This is why comfortable seating is so important in a garden. Two relaxed bodies, something to nibble or sip, minds and hearts open – friendships forged or maintained. A splendid tool for experiencing the moment.
The rapport can occur between nature, human and otherwise. A dog with his head on our shoe, a cat curled in our lap, a squirrel advancing in that sideways manner with tail held cautiously, yet hopefully, aloft (for the peanuts in my pocket) – all are recipients, all are givers. The sound may be a snore or a purr or a quoik-quoik, but the sharing goes beyond words.
Something quite wonderful happens when we alight in a garden and listen.
Karen listens for the sound of each raindrop in Victoria BC.