"There is no competition of sounds between a nightingale and a violin." ~ Dejan Stojanovic
The lockdown of the pandemic has brought some notable changes to life here on Fat Hummingbird Farm. Not the isolation or the solitude - we have always had those, and thankfully so. No, it was the sounds of the farm. People not going to work means that the early morning (5:30 am) sounds of the cars of those people that live in the country but work in various towns and villages are gone. Throughout the day we were used to the sometimes bumps and thumps of the quarry on the opposite mountain; the chug-chug of various farm machinery in distant fields. The conversations of people as they walk their dogs on the road. The conversations at the end of driveways or out in the fields. After all, sounds carry quite a distance out here. But these human sounds of country living have been distinctly muted and even non-existent.
Instead, other sounds of spring and the coming summer, the changes of the seasons, on the farm have been intensified. The first greening of the grasses and the small budding leaves on various trees all over our land and up the mountain are a blessed sight to the eyes. But, equally, they have sounds - muted, subdued, perhaps only suggested. But they are there. Listen. Listen closely enough and you can hear the sweet 'pop' of a bud unfurling its wee leaves; and a shushing pulsing sound as the trees and plants push the green up through their stems and trunks and out into the very tips of themselves. Like a steady and assured heartbeat. I swear the crocuses each bloom with the faint tinkle of a fairy bell. The apple trees are coming into bloom and with that a small, reedy cheer of 'ta-da' erupts with each flower. Each dandelion blows open its bloom with a cheery 'ka-pow!'. Dandelions are not dainty or exquisite but instead their unvarnished beauty and vigour creates an unbridled enthusiasm. A field of them is suggestive of a filled arena at a sports event. The lilac blossoms literally creak as they slowly open petal by petal - the sound staying true to prairie rocking chairs and the scraping sound of hawks' wings in the wind.
Now is the sound of laundry snapping on the line - the wind a rushing cataract sound lifting the shirt sleeves and pant legs and billowing the sheets like an incoming wave on the Bay of Fundy. The intimate garments titter and giggle as the breezes caress them. Their pastel colours seem more blushed as a result of being out on the line. The clack/plonk sound of unclipping clothes pegs and dropping them into the wicker basket as each dried, sun-warmed and scented piece of laundry is removed.
And, of course, here on the farm where the birds are plentiful and diverse, birdsong is rampant. The added quietening of human activity has made for a combined choir and symphony of avian melodies and harmonies. They start early, even before dawn, and continue until the morning wanes to midday. Their calls - the twittering and chattering and cheeping and cooing and cawing and whistles and screeches, the rolling up of notes, the rolling down of notes, the chortling, the murmuring - interweave with the sunlight and follow the shadows. At midday, things quiet for awhile. Then, the dove coos are audible and gentle, the knock-knock of the woodpecker discernible, the whining buzz of the hummingbirds resounding. Then the chickens under the hedges can be heard to be muttering along in counterpoint. The turkey buzzards high in the sky, circling, circling do not have a call. But you can imagine the soft thup. thup sound of their alternating ascending and descending coils. If you listen closely enough. Like riding in a silent glider high above the fields.
If birds are the orchestra of the morning then peepers are the choir of the evening. The evening is cooling, darkness slowly descends. Then . . . . that unearthly ambiance, that froggy melody. It is like the night has a pulse. It is the sound that creates the pleasant background music for a glass of wine on the evening porch - alone with the incinerating sound of immolating moths around the porch light or the clicking on and off sound of the fireflies in the pasture.
Late at night the foxes, and coyotes, and owls, and coy-wolves take the stage. The foxes and owls screech like they are playing the role of a murdered woman. The scream of British mystery series and disturbing movies. The sounds you hear and wonder if it is human after all, but have no intention of investigating. The coyotes and coy-wolves start their music when the moon is high - running the fields and coursing the riverbed.
When sound has become so true. So honest. So pure here on Fat Hummingbird Farm . . . well, even the moon has a sound. The finger-nail sliver of a crescent moon has a sharp, clear snip sound. It keens in a G7. Above the harmonies of the peepers and slow rocky babble of the stream, it sings. But the full moon sings best. Above the branches of the tallest trees - the trees that night-whisper in the midnight breeze - spreading her wide, wide skirts and looking down with a bemused smile in her pitted face she begins - a bone-thrumming hum in low E. Listen.
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