Bird Call
By: Erin Purcell

There is a symphony transpiring thirty feet above my head. Chirps and tweets bounce back and forth through the damp morning air. The sounds of the birds tangle playfully with one another; the music slides off the dewy leaves, tickles the stern tree bark, caresses my all too welcoming eardrums. The sparrow calls a greeting to the lark, as the lark croons a lullaby to the blue jay. Baby birds announce that they’ve awoken, and their mothers rush to comfort them. The finch warbles a melodic morning greeting to his feathered neighbors. The woodpecker rap-tap-taps out a rousing beat, trumpeting the arrival of the sun, the daily beginning, the fresh start.

This is what I like most about birds: their perpetual enthusiasm for each new day. No matter how many innumerable times the sun may sink or the moon may rise, the birds will always greet the sunrise with joyous song. There is no routine for birds; each moment is its own dew-wrapped present of unexplored potential, a delightful gift to be heralded with song.

My breath forms tiny diamonds that hang in the air in front of my nose and then vanish. Pine needles , spilled like pick-up sticks on a muddy carpet, crunch and crackle under my boots. The pungent aroma of sap floods my nose with every inhale of breath. In. Out. In. Out. . I nestle my chin further into my thick wool scarf, attempting to guard my face from the wind’s burning tongue. The forest is wrapped in its own thick scarf of stillness this morning. I try not to disturb the syrupy silence as I walk through the maze of pine branches, navigating my way to a place I need no bread crumbs or ball of string to find.

I settle down on a familiar log; the moss has been worn clear on my usual seat. I place the dog-eared guidebook beside me. I push my glasses up my nose and rest the binoculars on my lap. Some days I like to look at the birds, to stare up at them through wide eyes and curved lenses. Other days I don’t try to see the birds. In fact, I think I like them the best when I can’t see them. I admire them the most. Birds are able to tuck themselves amongst the branches, to camouflage themselves within their sylvan surroundings. The brown feathers of the warbler melt into the tree trunk with ease; the blue jay is obscured against the morning sky. In a world where the sun can be such a harsh and glaring spotlight, sometimes it is nice to hide. I grab hold of my right knee and gracelessly position it behind my left.

This is a morning for listening. I shift my weight back on the log, am about to close my eyes when- wait. What’s that? Something red has caught my eye in a distant treetop. I peer out at the speck of vibrant color. What is it doing here, that misstitch in this wild quilt of browns and greens and greys? The red approaches, flitting from one shaggy green branch to another. Suddenly, I comprehend. A cardinal.

I have never seen a cardinal in these woods before. The bird preens royally, dipping its small pointed beak snappily into its feathers. The cardinal swivels his head around; his dark eyes look to see who has noticed him, who is enchanted by this majestic new guest. He puffs out his cherry chest, extending his regal stature to its fullest extent.

He shimmies his feathers proudly; the light glancing off them causes them to glow like a sunrise at sea. The cardinal skips to the end of his branch, aligning himself at center stage.

And then he begins to sing. Not the self-absorbed hum of the finch, but a song that is meant for others, for listeners. Tweets stride confidently from the cardinal’s beak; chirps parade out unabashedly. The sound latches onto the breeze and tumbles through it gaily. These are joyous sounds, like a child’s laughter or jingle bells on Christmas morning.

The cardinal has won his audience. Other birds have quieted their chirping, have swiveled their delicate necks to glimpse this startling newcomer. The diamonds in the air come sporadically now, as my breathing falls into stride with the playful melody of the cardinal’s song. This tiny four inch creature has captivated the attention of the entire forest. The whole community is held on a string, waiting to see what he will do next. He stands on his soap box, his podium, his throne. Unembarrassed. Unashamed. Unafraid.

I turn my eyes downward at my own hands resting sheepishly in my lap. My heart is tapping out a beat with a pace to match the woodpecker’s.

I do not want to hide anymore. I do not want to tuck myself away, fold into the mundanities of life like a boulder shrouded in pine branches. I do not want to be like the regular birds, no matter how pretty their songs may be. I will not be complacent to live my life hiding from view up on some distant branch. Instead, I will be a cardinal. I will flash my color boldly to the frigid air. I will hide no longer, but captivate instead. I will let my thoughts be known, my ideas communicated, my emotions expressed. I will stride to the edge of my branch, I will turn my face outward. I will sing.