I walked in first light, heading to the beaver pond, treading quietly on dew laden grass down an abandoned road. On the horizon a smear of reddish-orange announced the coming sunrise. Ahead, two parallel red shale ruts separated by a stripe of green grass led through a mix of scrubby brush, second growth maple and ash trees, and reedy wet spots.

I began to engage in bird listening, often the best way to get updates on any new spring arrivals. Immediately I heard a soft, rolling “witchety-witchety-witchety”, the song of a Common Yellowthroat, a woodland warbler. Another one sang to my right, another straight ahead, all classic yellowthroat songs, each with a slightly different cadence. I particularly liked a “witchety-witchety-witchety-which” version with a strong emphasis on the final note.

Heading up a slight incline into drier habitat I heard another warbler song, the descending raspy “bee-buzz, bee-buzz” of a blue winged warbler. This wasn’t even a song, more humorous sounding than musical, yet as I listened a clear image of the blue-winged came to mind, a small yellowish bird with a mascara black eye line and sky blue wings chevroned with two white stripes.

A song drifted down from a tall maple, a song similar to that of a robin, but richer, clearer, and more varied. A flash of black and white in the tree, I brought up my binoculars and caught a view of a male Rose-breasted Grosbeak, black back, pure white breast, and on its throat a vivid splash of rosy-pink.

To my left sounded a squeaky “wheesa, wheesa, wheesa”, the unmusical but unmistakable song of a Black-and White Warbler. And then another song carried through the early morning air, a short song ending in a downward slur. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I spotted movement in a tree, several birds. Binoculars up, tracking, got one in sight, yellow cap, black eye stripe and a patch of chestnut on the side, a Chestnut-sided Warbler. And then the song, ‘pleased, pleased, pleased, to MEET CHA,” sorted itself in my memory.

Five years ago I knew none of these songs. They would have just been birdsongs in the background. But now, after studying, listening to CDs, birding with mentors, and spending many hours in field observation, what Jon Young so aptly calls “dirt time,” at least some of these songs had grown as familiar as the voices of friends and family. Hearing these songs now, recognizing them, added to my enjoyment of this early morning walk. Even my limited knowledge of bird songs felt like a great and generous gift.

When I arrived at the shore of the beaver pond I noticed that the willow tree, bare and gray last week, was now festooned with burgeoning minty-yellow green leaves. Across the pond the maples, willows and honeysuckles had also begun to leaf out. Their shapes, which had been black and gray and skeletal last week, were now soft and round and decked out in delicate spring green.

Two Canada Geese, most likely the pair I saw last week, swam in front of me, the slightly smaller female closer, the larger, more cautious male further away. They honked quietly, steadily, in that unique geese synchrony, the female’s higher “hink” followed by the male’s lower “honk.” Their calls were echoed by a pair of geese on the adjacent downstream pond. It seemed as if the neighbor geese were saying, “We hear you. We have your back.”

The female paddled off then circled back. I wondered if she had a nest nearby and if my presence was disturbing her. Slowly the geese swam off, still honking steadily. When the two geese on the next pond broke into a volley of high pitched honks and took flight, my pair reflexively echoed the honking and also took flight before splashing back down. Geese seemed to be very socially attuned birds.

The morning chorus filled the air; the accelerating drumming of a Ruffed Grouse, the “konk-la-ree” songs of red-wings, water pouring peacefully over the beaver dam, the high pitched “peep, peep, peep” calls of the male tree frogs trying to outdo each other with volume and tone, trying to impress and attract a female. I heard the caws of flying crows, the cry of a killdeer, and then from a nearby tree a series of rich melodious whistles, “tewdi, pidoo, tewdi, pidoo.” Binoculars up, and there in the top of the tree, illuminated in the morning sunlight, a bright orange Baltimore Oriole singing to the world.

I gazed at the newly leafed out willow tree. Red-wings flew in and out, chased each other, sang, and called. A male Song Sparrow landed at the tip of branch, looked around, then launched into its lilting. “maids, maids, maids put on your tea-kettle-lettle-lettle” song. Seeing a bird sing, seeing it tilt its head back and throw its full feathered body into a song is the way some people learn and lock a song into memory.

Another bird appeared, a Gray Catbird, soft dark gray with a black cap. It flicked its tail, glanced around and then broke into a long string of half mimicked, half made up, song snippets ending in a whiny mew.

This willow, growing along the shore of the pond, seemed a very “birdy” tree. I felt fortunate to be sitting only thirty feet away and to be pretty much ignored by the birds. Even the beavers as they swam by seemed to be paying me little attention this week.

I glanced again into the willow and spotted a yellow colored warbler, lifted my binoculars, and saw more detail; brilliant bright yellow head and body with chestnut streaks running down its breast. It leaned back, opened its beak, and sang a bright clear, “sweet, sweet, sweet, I’m so sweet.” This was a Yellow Warbler. It lingered for a moment, flew off to a nearby bush, sang again, and then shot into the air to chase another male away.

I reflected on what I had seen. This bright butter yellow bird was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Yellow Warblers like wet woods and stream sides, and particularly favor willow trees where they flit from branch to branch and glean insects from the leaves.

I wondered where he was last week when the fog hung over the pond and the willow branches were bare. Perhaps he had been refueling somewhere in Virginia, another stopover on his three to four week migration from his wintering grounds in Colombia. He had arrived at this perfect piece of habitat using some combination of still to be fully understood navigational strategies; following the geography of the Central American coast, venturing across the Gulf of Mexico, tuning into magnetic force fields, navigating by the stars, flying at night, riding favorable winds.

Turning all of this amazing information around and around in my mind I was in awe, but I also felt a deeper reaction, some physical settling from shoulders to heart to feet. These deeper responses felt positive and seemed imbued with strength, resilience, hope and optimism. Somehow seeing this tiny bright yellow warbler arrive on time, on place, and on duty was like reading a story or hearing a metaphor that’s meaning slipped around and through and under the thought constructs of the mind and straight into the soul and heart.

The female goose returned and resumed her circling and honking. My hour was up so I decided to cede the spot to her and move on. I took a longer way back, uphill, down an old road into a patch of woods and on to a little sheltered valley that I had named Shangri-La. As I entered the valley I saw a small flock of brownish birds flitting through the low brush. I brought my binoculars up, but the birds were on the move. I couldn’t get a clear look and they didn’t offer a song. A mystery unsolved.

I decided to sit down for a few minutes and listen. Soon, I heard another recently returned warbler, an Ovenbird, a dweller of the forest floor, loudly singing “teacher, teacher, teacher.” This distinctive and energetic song had always been one of my favorites.

A flute like melody carried through the air, an ethereal “eee-o-lay” ending with a trilled whistle, the haunting song of a Wood Thrush. This bird produces two tones simultaneously allowing it to sing harmony with itself. This particular thrush had a jazzy inclination; mixing, matching, and improvising melodious tones and patterns. I sat absolutely still, entranced by the song.

Then a squawk followed by sudden silence. I glanced up and spotted a Coopers Hawk cruising through the woods, a bird hunting hawk, using its short blunted wings to maneuver effortlessly through the branches. The hawk flew on, but it was clear that I wasn’t the only one glad to see the return of the warblers, thrushes, and grosbeaks.

An uneasy quiet lingered after the hawk’s incursion. After a few minutes, a chickadee, always one of the bolder birds in the woods, began to whistle “sweetie pie, sweetie pie.” I folded up my chair, slung the strap over my shoulder, and started my hike back home.

This sit spot session took place on May 5, 2018 in Wayne County, PA.