Tremendous.

Audubon: A New Golden Age of Observation Is Revealing the Wonders of Night Migration ...

Billions of birds travel north in spring and south in fall, hundreds of species keeping a cycle of movement, and they do so primarily at night. While some large birds like hawks, cranes, and waterfowl are daytime travelers, most migrants—including the vast majority of songbirds—are on the wing in the dark. The reasons include a calmer atmosphere, guidance from the stars, and safety from predators. Meanwhile we humans by and large have no inkling of the tremendous journeys made while we sleep. Even for those who study migration, the story is unfolding in ways never before possible.

Accompaniment ...

Liszt, Deux Légendes, S. 175

Ingrid Carbone performs No. 1, "St. Francis of Assisi: The Sermon to the Birds"...

Sing.

Sosa, Lark, 2001

WITH the LARK

Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,

Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;

Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,—

Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong.

All the night through, though I moan in the dark,

I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,

Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.

But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,

I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;

And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,

I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,

Where the rain shall not grieve thro’ the leaves of the tree,

There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,

For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;

And though life has been hard and death’s pathway been dark,

I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Happy Birthday, Ottorino Respighi

Ottorino Respighi was born on this day in 1879.

Oksana Lyniv conducts the Youth Symphony of Ukraine in a performance of The Birds ...

Excellent.

An excellent book ...

Thanks, Pop.

Seas.

CORMORANTS

All afternoon the sea was a muddle of birds,

black and spiky,

long-necked, slippery.

Down they went

into the waters for the poor

blunt-headed silver

they live on, for a little while.

God, how did it ever come to you to

invent Time?

I dream at night

of the birds, of the beautiful, dark seas

they push through.

Mary Oliver

Comfort.

Swells.

UNDERSONG

The happy white throat on the sweeing bough

Swayed by the impulse of the gadding wind

That ushers in the showers of april – now

Singeth right joyously and now reclined

Croucheth and clingeth to her moving seat

To keep her hold and till the wind for rest

Pauses she mutters inward melody

That seems her hearts rich thinkings to repeat

And when the branch is still her little breast

Swells out in raptures gushing symphonies

And then against her brown wing softly prest

The wind comes playing an enraptured guest

This way and that she swees – till gusts arise

More boisterous in their play – when off she flies.

John Clare

Jim Harrison, "Lessons from a Raven Funeral"

Someone looked down from Babel's tower

And got the wrong idea 

Ignoring the birds above him ...

Eye.

Larsen, A Blackbird, 1870

THIRTEEN WAYS of LOOKING at a BLACKBIRD

I

Among twenty snowy mountains,   

The only moving thing   

Was the eye of the blackbird.   

II

I was of three minds,   

Like a tree   

In which there are three blackbirds.   

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.   

It was a small part of the pantomime.   

IV

A man and a woman   

Are one.   

A man and a woman and a blackbird   

Are one.   

V

I do not know which to prefer,   

The beauty of inflections   

Or the beauty of innuendoes,   

The blackbird whistling   

Or just after.   

VI

Icicles filled the long window   

With barbaric glass.   

The shadow of the blackbird   

Crossed it, to and fro.   

The mood   

Traced in the shadow   

An indecipherable cause.   

VII

O thin men of Haddam,   

Why do you imagine golden birds?   

Do you not see how the blackbird   

Walks around the feet   

Of the women about you?   

VIII

I know noble accents   

And lucid, inescapable rhythms;   

But I know, too,   

That the blackbird is involved   

In what I know.   

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight,   

It marked the edge   

Of one of many circles.   

X

At the sight of blackbirds   

Flying in a green light,   

Even the bawds of euphony   

Would cry out sharply.   

XI

He rode over Connecticut   

In a glass coach.   

Once, a fear pierced him,   

In that he mistook   

The shadow of his equipage   

For blackbirds.   

XII

The river is moving.   

The blackbird must be flying.   

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.   

It was snowing   

And it was going to snow.   

The blackbird sat   

In the cedar-limbs.

Wallace Stevens

True.

Watt, Skylark Days, n/d

TO the SKYLARK

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,

Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

A privacy of glorious light is thine;

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with instinct more divine;

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

William Wordsworth

Home.

Nobody has seen the trekking birds take their way towards such warmer spheres as do not exist, or rivers break their course through rocks and plains to run into an ocean which is not to be found. For God does not create a longing or a hope without having a fulfilling reality ready for them. But our longing is our pledge, and blessed are the homesick, for they shall come home.

Isak Dinesen, from "The Diver"

Think.

Martin, Marsh Wren, n/d

A WREN'S NEST

Among the dwellings framed by birds

In field or forest with nice care,

Is none that with the little Wren's

In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,

And seldom needs a laboured roof;

Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,

In perfect fitness for its aim,

That to the Kind by special grace

Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek

An opportune recess,

The hermit has no finer eye

For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,

A canopy in some still nook;

Others are pent-housed by a brae

That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate

Warbles by fits his low clear song;

And by the busy streamlet both

Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,

Where, till the flitting bird's return,

Her eggs within the nest repose,

Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,

There is a better and a best;

And, among fairest objects, some

Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved

In a green covert, where, from out

The forehead of a pollard oak,

The leafy antlers sprout;

For She who planned the mossy lodge,

Mistrusting her evasive skill,

Had to a Primrose looked for aid

Her wishes to fulfill.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,

And fixed an infant's span above

The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest

The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain

Can turn to little things; but once

Looked up for it in vain:

'Tis gone---a ruthless spoiler's prey,

Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,

'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved

Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light the moss-built cell

I saw, espied its shaded mouth;

And felt that all was well.

The Primrose for a veil had spread

The largest of her upright leaves;

And thus, for purposes benign,

A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb

Thy quiet with no ill intent,

Secure from evil eyes and hands

On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young

Take flight, and thou art free to roam,

When withered is the guardian Flower,

And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,

Amid the unviolated grove

Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft

In foresight, or in love.

William Wordsworth

Dazzled.

The GREEN LINNET

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Their snow-white blossoms on my head,

With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequestered nook how sweet

To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,

Presiding Spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,

Make all one band of paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment:

A Life, a Presence like the Air,

Scattering thy gladness without care,

Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,

That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perched in ecstasies,

Yet seeming still to hover;

There! where the flutter of his wings

Upon his back and body flings

Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,

A brother of the dancing leaves;

Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

While fluttering in the bushes.

William Wordsworth

Where.

THE BLUE

heron is gray, not blue, but great enough

against brown-tipped bowed cattails to be

well-named, is known for its stealth, shier

than a cloud, but won’t fly or float away

when it’s scared, stands there thinking maybe

it’s invisible though it’s not—tall, gray,

straight as a pole among the cloudy reeds.

 

Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time.

And sets it down just beyond the other,

no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on

slowly across the silt, mud, algae-

throttled surface, through sedge grass,

to stand to its knees in water turning

grayer now that afternoon is evening.

 

Now that afternoon is evening

the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky,

bluer than the mercury blue-black still pond.

So when did it snag the bullfrog

hanging, kicking, in its scissor beak?

To look so long means to miss the sudden.

It strides around like a sleek cat

 

from pond to bank and back, blue tall bird,

washing the frog, banging it against stones,

pecking almost as if it doesn’t know

what to do now that it’s caught such a thing.

How fast its beak must be to shoot out

like an arrow or that certain—as it’s called—

slant of light. Blue light. Where did it go?

David Baker

Thank you, Dr. Baker.

Into.

The ONLY WAY of LOOKING at a BIRD

( "...it is an astonishment to be alive, and it behoves you to be astonished..." John Donne )

she looked at the bird

with all of her self

as if by some alchemy

of thought

she flew into

its shape

as it became the air

her mind opening

its wings

to the sky

the house now

a little blue egg

far far below her

her voice curving

into a beak

that flung its being

into the song

of self

scrawled across

a sky

becoming sunset

so that

becoming human

again

was a grief

that could only be

expressed

in birdsong.

Donall Dempsey

Oversound.

NEVER AGAIN WOULD BIRDS’ SONG BE THE SAME

He would declare and could himself believe

That the birds there in all the garden round

From having heard the daylong voice of Eve

Had added to their own an oversound,

Her tone of meaning but without the words.

Admittedly an eloquence so soft

Could only have had an influence on birds

When call or laughter carried it aloft.

Be that as may be, she was in their song.

Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed

Had now persisted in the woods so long

That probably it never would be lost.

Never again would birds’ song be the same.

And to do that to birds was why she came.

Robert Frost

Changes.

It is the music which makes it what it is; it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of a saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little comer of the high mansions of the sky.

Upton Sinclair, from The Jungle

Published.

Vaughan Williams, The Lark Ascending manuscript, 1914

Inspired by George Meredith's poem of the same name (below), Ralph Vaughan Williams published "The Lark Ascending" on this day in 1921.

Jennifer Pike performs ...

The LARK ASCENDING

He rises and begins to round,

He drops the silver chain of sound

Of many links without a break,

In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,

All intervolv’d and spreading wide,

Like water-dimples down a tide

Where ripple ripple overcurls

And eddy into eddy whirls;

A press of hurried notes that run

So fleet they scarce are more than one,

Yet changingly the trills repeat

And linger ringing while they fleet,

Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dear

To her beyond the handmaid ear,

Who sits beside our inner springs,

Too often dry for this he brings,

Which seems the very jet of earth

At sight of sun, her music’s mirth,

As up he wings the spiral stair,

A song of light, and pierces air

With fountain ardor, fountain play,

To reach the shining tops of day,

And drink in everything discern’d

An ecstasy to music turn’d,

Impell’d by what his happy bill

Disperses; drinking, showering still,

Unthinking save that he may give

His voice the outlet, there to live

Renew’d in endless notes of glee,

So thirsty of his voice is he,

For all to hear and all to know

That he is joy, awake, aglow,

The tumult of the heart to hear

Through pureness filter’d crystal-clear,

And know the pleasure sprinkled bright

By simple singing of delight,

Shrill, irreflective, unrestrain’d,

Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustain’d

Without a break, without a fall,

Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,

Perennial, quavering up the chord

Like myriad dews of sunny sward

That trembling into fulness shine,

And sparkle dropping argentine;

Such wooing as the ear receives

From zephyr caught in choric leaves

Of aspens when their chattering net

Is flush’d to white with shivers wet;

And such the water-spirit’s chime

On mountain heights in morning’s prime,

Too freshly sweet to seem excess,

Too animate to need a stress;

But wider over many heads

The starry voice ascending spreads,

Awakening, as it waxes thin,

The best in us to him akin;

And every face to watch him rais’d,

Puts on the light of children prais’d,

So rich our human pleasure ripes

When sweetness on sincereness pipes,

Though nought be promis’d from the seas,

But only a soft-ruffling breeze

Sweep glittering on a still content,

Serenity in ravishment.

For singing till his heaven fills,

’T is love of earth that he instils,

And ever winging up and up,

Our valley is his golden cup,

And he the wine which overflows

To lift us with him as he goes:

The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine

He is, the hills, the human line,

The meadows green, the fallows brown,

The dreams of labor in the town;

He sings the sap, the quicken’d veins;

The wedding song of sun and rains

He is, the dance of children, thanks

Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,

And eye of violets while they breathe;

All these the circling song will wreathe,

And you shall hear the herb and tree,

The better heart of men shall see,

Shall feel celestially, as long

As you crave nothing save the song.

Was never voice of ours could say

Our inmost in the sweetest way,

Like yonder voice aloft, and link

All hearers in the song they drink:

Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,

Our passion is too full in flood,

We want the key of his wild note

Of truthful in a tuneful throat,

The song seraphically free

Of taint of personality,

So pure that it salutes the suns

The voice of one for millions,

In whom the millions rejoice

For giving their one spirit voice.

Yet men have we, whom we revere,

Now names, and men still housing here,

Whose lives, by many a battle-dint

Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,

Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet

For song our highest heaven to greet:

Whom heavenly singing gives us new,

Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,

From firmest base to farthest leap,

Because their love of Earth is deep,

And they are warriors in accord

With life to serve and pass reward,

So touching purest and so heard

In the brain’s reflex of yon bird;

Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,

Through self-forgetfulness divine,

In them, that song aloft maintains,

To fill the sky and thrill the plains

With showerings drawn from human stores,

As he to silence nearer soars,

Extends the world at wings and dome,

More spacious making more our home,

Till lost on his aërial rings

In light, and then the fancy sings.

George Meredith

Chirping.