elainegrey

This morning, as i held Christine in the dim predawn light waiting for the kettle to come to a boil, a bird sang so beautifully just outside the window. Flute like notes, with much variation: i tried to simply enjoy the song, but oh how it renewed that desire of mine to be able to name the singers of birdsong. "Sing-songer," i identified, "a robin? But there is no whinny." When i returned with my tea, the bird was singing in the distance. I started the track from my Birding by Ear CD: "Sing-Songers: American Robin, Western Tanager, Solitary Vireo, Black-Headed Grosbeak." It's a Robin, the song on the track echoed by my distant neighbor bird.

Would i have listened to the song so intently if i had known for sure it was a robin? Or would i have listened more closely? I don't know. My urge to name and identify fascinates me, itself.

I suppose, "identifying birds by ear," is an entry on my "bucket list." anoisblue asked about bucket lists on facebook a few weeks ago. "Make a list," seemed to be the most common answer, and i shrugged away. It's not how i've framed my desires. As i listened to the robin, though, i realized that this would be a perfect entry on a bucket list.

"Crochet a sweater," asks to be put on the list, too. And then the item clarifies, "No, not this whimsical thing you are pulling together but following a pattern." I actually think the item is pretty specific that it's the green suede yarn sweater that i started years ago and can't seem to get the collar right.

Then all the books in the shelves by the bed started murmuring, "Read me, don't forget me, study me." Yikes! I think i'll back away from list making now and just leave those two items on it, before all the possibilities of the world overwhelm me with desire.