Picture a wave of sound steadily circling the earth every day of the year.  This wave is the dawn chorus of birdsongs that begins an hour before sunrise and moves steadily westward around the globe.

Like most people I have known about the dawn chorus for a long time from being awakened by all the twittery, chirpy racket on spring mornings.  Usually, with a touch of bemused annoyance I roll over and go back to sleep.

However, my perspective on the dawn chorus evolved during my Forest Stillness year when I fulfilled a commitment to sit for an hour a week for a full year at the same place in nature.  As the year progressed, I got up earlier, often before sunrise, and while sitting still in the predawn light I began to truly hear the beauty, diversity, complexity, and symphonic qualities of the morning bird songs. 

I particularly recall a sit spot session from an early June morning.  I felt surrounded by and immersed in a symphony of bird songs, an experience that made me feel small, like an insignificant visitor yet simultaneously deeply connected to nature around me. I described these feelings in my book about the year in a chapter entitled “The Warblers Woods.”

Now, it was mid-May, the peak of the birdsong season had arrived, and I felt an urge to revisit my home sit spot in Prompton State Park and once again listen to the dawn chorus.  Plus, I had a small personal agenda.  I wanted to top my tally of sixteen songs that I identified back on that previous June morning.   I thought, with a touch of pride, that I could do much better now as I knew more bird songs and I would have the assistance of the Merlin birdsong app.

The Plan

First, I looked at the forecast to find a morning with sunshine and calm air, conditions said to favor the bird’s singing.  Plus, I wanted a comfortable morning to sit in the woods.  The forecast for the coming Tuesday looked ideal.

The second step was to figure out the timing.  The dawn chorus supposedly starts an hour before sunrise and unfolds in an orderly progression of species chiming in.  I very much wanted to hear the chorus begin and to track this progression.

On Tuesday, the sun would rise around 6 a.m. in the valley where Prompton Lake was situated.  For me to be in the woods early enough, say 4:45, meant I would need to wake up at 4.  Mulling over this timing I heard a whiny inner voice inquiring if it was worth it to get up that early just to hear some birds tweet. 

Several minutes of spirited back-and-forth internal dialogue ensued.  Finally, I reminded myself that the morning chorus is absolutely one of the most beautiful and awe-inducing experiences in life and well worth an early wake up.

Decision made, target day set, intention formed.  On Monday night I loaded my camp stool in the car, packed my sit spot journal, binoculars and camera into a backpack, set up the coffee maker, and went to bed.  To my surprise I woke up spontaneously and easily at 3:30, once again impressed by the power of intention.

The Night Sounds

My high headlight beams carved two channels of bright light into the thick darkness on the drive to the Prompton Lake boat ramp parking lot.  Pulling in, I parked the car, opened the door, and immediately was immersed in the night soundscape—the high-pitched steady droning of gray tree frogs and from across the lake the who, who, who cooks for you call of a nocturnal hunting Barred Owl.

It was 4:30 a.m.  I was on time to hear the morning chorus begin, yet surprisingly I also heard a few chirps and calls from the surrounding woods.  In theory it was still too early for the birds to start singing.  Maybe my headlights and car sounds had awakened them.

Headlamp lighting the way I crossed the parking lot and stepped onto the West Shore Trail treading carefully over the rocks and roots.  I knew the way well and called on my muscle memory to guide me.  Right on cue my feet recognized the spot to leave the trail and bushwhack through the trees and bushes to the tip of the peninsula to my home sit spot under the thick arching branch of the big black cherry tree.

In darkness, I set up my camp stool, sat down, settled in, opened my notebook, and began to listen.  It was 4:42. The night sounds droned on.  The Barred Owl called again.  Then, I also heard nearby bird songs.  A Northern Yellow Warbler sang his tuneful sweet, sweet, a little more sweet repeatedly.

With an assist from Merlin I detected more songs—the enthusiastic maids, maids put on your tea kettle-lettle-lettle  chantof a Song Sparrow, the electric static dzeee, dzeee, dzeee of an Eastern Kingbird, the snappy hoarse che-bek, che-bek of a Least Flycatcher, the jazzy mimic snippets of a Gray Catbird, and a few minutes later the insistent TEAcha, TEAcha, TEAcha of an ovenbird.

What was going on?  The birds were singing more than an hour before sunrise.  And the order was all out of whack with the Northern Yellow Warbler, supposedly a later joining participant, taking the early lead.  Maybe the morning chorus was not so orderly after all.

Transitions

Faint hints of first light began to spread through the woods bringing a gradual transition from darkness to a world of gray and black; gray and black tree trunks around me, gray leaf canopy overhead.  Still too dark to see my handwriting.   I had to turn on my phone light to write notes in my journal.

Sixty-six degrees.  I felt the mild humid air on my face.  No breeze.  The night soundscape began to subside.  Frogs toned, stopped, then toned more.  No abrupt stop.  It was as if the nightshift did not want to give up the stage.

More birds joined the growing morning songfest.  An American Resdstart sang tsee, tsee, tsee, tseEO, a Veery called a sharp veer, veer, veer, a Common Yellowthroat chanted witchety, witchety, witchety, while a Northern Cardinal tuned up with clear, clear clear whistles. A robin joined in with its familiar cheerily, cheerup and a Red-eyed Vireo began to repeat it’s methodical here I am, up here, in the tree.

Still, the most insistent singer was the nearby Northern Yellow Warbler singing sweet, sweet, sweet, a little more sweet loudly, clearly, and enthusiastically.  It seemed to me as if Mr. Warbler was too excited to sleep in, too eager to launch into song and begin his day.  I could relate. I felt excited too listening to the morning chorus and watching the darkness turn to light.

Intertwined

Ten after five now and I begin to see color—green ferns at my feet, green leaves above, high patches of pale blue sky, and to the east pale pink spreading above the horizon.

The bird chorus increased in volume, intensity, and complexity, the songs overlapping, trilling together, taking on a symphonic beauty.  A Wood Thrush added a flute like eee-o-lay, a Rose Breasted Grosbeak, singing like a robin with voice lessons joined in, a Black and White Warbler added an almost percussion like wheeza, wheeza, wheeza.

Light and color increasing, dawn chorus rising to a crescendo.  What was I thinking when I set out to count the number of bird songs?  The dawn chorus was all about quality—beauty-bringing, awe-inspiring, joy-creating, wonder-inducing, spirit-elevating, heart-uplifting qualities.

Movements

The morning chorus grew louder. It seemed as if the birds were feeding off each other’s energy, even trying to out-sing each other.  Then I detected a shift, the chaotic rising crescendo of the first movement of the morning symphony settled into a steady state.  A new movement began with a progression of soloists taking center stage.

A Tufted Titmouse took the lead singing a clear whistled pe-er, pe-er, pe-er. In the still morning air its rich, sweet song carried far.  Several quick flyby solo appearances followed; a mallard quacked, a raven croaked crr-uck, a Green Herron voiced a loud skyow, anda crow called caw, caw, caw, and a Warbling Vireo, true to its name sang its languid, husky, warbled song.

Two Gray Catbirds took center stage, one to my left, one to my right.  Catbirds are mimics, freestyle mimics, that jumble snippets of other birds calls and songs, make up their own sounds, and punctuate it all with an occasional feline sounding mew. I listened, transported by the endless, cascading, lilting, jumbled flow of the Catbird’s energetic, long continuing melodic song snippets.

Behind and backing up these soloists all the other birds continued to sing—Yellow Warbler, Ovenbird, Common Yellowthroat, Song Sparrow, Wood Thrush, Veery and more.  I felt transported by the rich diversity of bird songs, all different, all unique, all blending into a greater harmony. 

I closed my eyes to listen carefully and fully to the catbirds.  I thought about the other two mimic birds.  The Brown Thrasher that draws from a playlist of over 250 memorized songs repeated in a regimented pattern of two, and the Northern Mockingbird that imitates other birdsong and even mechanical sounds usually played back in a predictable and musical pattern of threes. It occurred to me that if the Thrasher was Bach, and the Mockingbird was Mozart, then the Catbird was pure Coltrane.

Gazing at the surrounding trees I saw more examples of diversity, rough barked cherry, smooth barked maples, single straight trunks, a trio of joined trunks, feathery gray birches leaning over the water, fallen dead trees splayed across the forest litter. Ferns, wildflowers, and grasses scattered nearby. Assorted color lichen spread over the rocks and tree trunks.  It seemed to me that nature generated and thrived on diversity.

Sunrise Reflections

Already 5:42. My hour had flown by.  I walked over to the shoreline to gaze at the reflection on the trees on the water and wait for the sun to rise.

A gentle breeze arose carrying the scent of fresh water and an earthy-leafy aroma from the forest floor.  Good, invigorating, immune system boosting nature smells.  I inhaled more deeply and detected a deep musky, perfumed fragrance.  What was it?  I inhaled again. Ah, I knew the source.  It was the pale white, extremely fragrant blossoms of the Russian Olive, a sweet-smelling but invasive shrub.

All around me the birds continued their exuberant overlapping singing, perhaps waiting like me for the first glimpse and touch of sunlight, waiting to launch into the routine of the day. It was light enough now that I could see a few birds, a Song Sparrow flitting from ground to low branches, a Yellow Warbler in a high branch gleaning for food between bursts of song.

Gazing at the lake and sky I thought about the generally held idea that the purpose of the dawn chorus is all about territory and raising chicks.  Mostly male birds sing to attract mates and to claim and defend nesting territory.  Song volume, complexity, accuracy, and persistence are all ways to advertise vitality, suitability, and good genes.

Yet, I found myself thinking that there were elements of the chorus that extended beyond simple function. In many indigenous cultures birds are viewed as intermediaries between the physical world and the spiritual realm.  Their morning songs are seen as prayers of gratitude to the Creator for the gift of new day and as a song to honor the cycle of life.

I also thought that if the morning songs were just meant to mark territory, then they could easily be simple squeaks and beeps but as I listened to the melodious and tuneful songs around me, I heard beauty, more beauty than was needed.  I often had this thought when immersed in nature, that nature creates more beauty than is strictly needed, perhaps as a celebration, perhaps as an inherent principle, an extra force, always surrounding us, acting to power life forward.

Timing

As the sun lifted closer to the horizon, I considered the commonly held belief that the dawn chorus starts precisely one hour before sunrise. This timing is based on an interplay between internal biology and external environmental cues.  As sunrise approaches melatonin levels drop while the first hints of light act as a trigger to sing.   But based on my experience on this morning, the dawn chorus began much earlier.  The birds were chirping an hour and a half before sunrise.

Another theory is that suppression plays a role.  The birds have not been able to sing all night and are full of pent-up energy to break into song. This made sense to me as I felt and heard the bird’s eagerness to sing particularly with Mr. Northern Yellow Warbler who was still singing away.

It is also believed that the birds sing during the time before and right at sunrise because conditions are optimal for sound transmission. Cooler, calm air allows songs to travel further.  Plus, it is a quieter time in general with less human-made noise.

For me, as a newly awakened, fresh-eared listener, temporarily free from the inner and outer noise of my life and still linked to the openness of the dream world, the quiet of early morning did seem like an ideal time to listen.

Random

I also thought about the so-called orderly progression of bird songs which I had been eager to hear.  The theory is that the species with the biggest eyes, think robin here, can catch more light sooner and thus are the first to be triggered into singing.  But what I heard on this morning was completely random.  A tiny-eyed Northern Yellow Warbler, supposed to be a later joiner, was one of the first, loudest, and most insistent singers.

Different birds with different songs came and went, sang lead, faded into the background, returned and sang again.  Some, like the cardinals started slowly, seemed to warm up, and then hit their stride.  The catbirds sang progressively more complex songs. but then suddenly would pause and revert to simple whiny mews.  It sounded like chaos to me.

During the rest of the day, I tried to wrap my brain around this mystery of order versus chaos.  Then, a poem by Mary Oliver posted on Facebook offered an explanation.

The Backyard

I had no time to haul out all

the dead stuff so it hung limp,

or dry, wherever the wind swung it

over or down or across.  All summer

it stayed that way, untrimmed, and

thickened.  The paths grew

damp and uncomfortable and mossy until

nobody could get through but a mouse or a

shadow. Blackberries, ferns, leaves, litter

totally without direction management

supervision.  The birds loved it.

The morning chorus was random and chaotic because that is the way the birds liked it. 

Departure

The sun pushed above the far line of trees.  The warmth of the first rays touched my face while the greens of the leaves and blue of the water grew more vivid.  I packed up my gear and began my walk back along the trail surrounded by the songs of warblers, catbirds, and thrushes.

Back at the boat ramp, where full sunshine now illuminated lake and forest, I spoke to a man and his grandson who were readying their fishing boat to launch. I asked the man what he was fishing for.  He replied with a smile, “Anything that bites.”

Then, after a moment of reflection he added, “Truth be told, I’m just grateful to be out on this beautiful day the Creator has given us.”

It is interesting how sometimes others give voice to your thoughts and feelings.  I too felt grateful to have once again been present to hear the dawn chorus.