Singin’ in the Rocks

Most mornings, as first light hits the lichen-covered rock outside our living room window, a small, white-chested bird appears and belts out a song. And I mean belts!

What if you couldn’t see?

I was moving through an aspen jungle. It was a jungle. White columbine and waist-high bluebells hid the ground while a fluttering canopy closed off much of the sky.

Most exotic were the bird songs. Back-and-forth flute-like calls seemed magnified in the super-acoustics of reflecting leaves. What kind of bird were they? And where exactly? I struggled to catch a glimpse of them, but failed. I’d sit still. I’d move. Either way the singers remained camouflaged overhead.

What if, I wondered, I couldn’t see anything? What if, on my walks up the hill, I could only listen?