It is not in the dead of night that he sings, but at the first glimmer of dawn. In this summer season, his first notes pour out, liquid and clear, around five a.m. From his perch in a tree near my bedroom window, he creates enchanting melodies like a musician improvising on a fine instrument, sounds so intricate and varied that each phrase seems a unique distillation of infinity. And then, amidst the cascade of trills and warbles, there comes a pattern of seven distinct notes that return at irregular intervals. All seven tones are on the C scale, and the pitch is identical with each repetition. This is not random sound. It is a musical figure that conveys meaning to those who understand its message. Other blackbirds, one presumes. It does not appear to be a mating call, as this song can be heard long before and after the spring mating season. (Female blackbirds, smaller and lighter-colored than the males, do not sing.) It could be just a territorial warning, but I think it’s more than that. He seems to be proclaiming, perhaps telling a story. It is a long story, for his early morning song lasts unbroken for ten minutes or so, and he returns many times in the day to continue his tale. In the late afternoons, he stands in the highest branches of our neighbor’s weeping willow, his black silhouette etched against the sky, his long yellow bill opening wide as he sends forth his eternal song. And always, those seven notes reappear: C-B, C-B, G-D-C.
The idea came to me one day that my blackbird was a bard, endlessly recounting some ancestral saga learned from his forebears, repeating that seven-note pattern like Homer’s “rosy-fingered dawn” to give rhythm and structure to the monologue. I have read about ornithological studies showing that juvenile birds learn song patterns from adults; that they are, in effect, carrying on an “oral tradition” like humans hearing tales from their elders and passing them on to their descendants. What histories or myths might my blackbird be recounting? Ancestral migrations from Asia or Africa? The survival of species-threatening events—pandemics, ice ages, predators? An Ancient Mariner-like account of some past disaster? Humans can’t know the meanings of these lyrical chants. But birds know.
There was a time when I was disturbed by his early morning song because it aroused me from my sleep. I finally realized that I was privileged to hear those pure sweet notes proclaim the joy of living at the dawn of a new day.
All his life, he is only waiting for this moment to arrive.
