The loons have at last returned. I heard one early one morning a week ago as it flew over, announcing its arrival with its distinctive trilling. Like so many other birds, loons emit several different sounds that generally indicate what they’re up to at any given moment. From the ostentatious in-flight warbling to the gull-like yodel from the pond, this large bird’s mission in life seems to be to make itself heard at every opportunity, and loudly so.
My favorite loon sound would have to be the prolonged mournful owl-like whoooing it makes in the dead of night when the rest of the world is asleep. I like to think that it’s letting me know that I’m not alone in my own wakefulness. It begins as a low, soft moan then builds to a haunting echo that reverberates across the entire span of whatever body of water it happens to be occupying.
I’ve been told by neighbors who live closer to the water that the loons get annoying at times, but from my own slight distance away, it”˜s just loud enough to be pleasant, and it definitely qualifies as one of the most cherished sounds to be heard in this wooded place.
In the dozen or so years I’ve been here, I’ve learned to recognize many birds simply by their sound. From the blue jay’s nasally scream to the robin’s melodious song, these spring days are filled with birdsong from sunrise to sunset, a circumstance made even more wonderful when it’s warm enough to open windows to let the music in along with the fresh air.
No two birds emit quite the same sound. While there is some similarity between the large pileated woodpecker’s laugh and that of its smaller cousin the hairy woodpecker as they fly through the woods, the former’s is much louder and slightly slower in cadence than that of the latter.
Of the smaller birds, most have several different songs, including the chickadee’s staccato purring and the titmouse’s dual notes as it calls for its mate. The juncos feeding on the ground emit a soft throaty chirp, while the songs of the wood and the hermit thrush are like no others, their flute-like notes reverberating on warmer spring evenings.
Last night, the owls were in fine form, calling to each other through the woods. One was quite close by, and I almost went outside with a flashlight to see if I could spot it. But more then likely, it would have seen me and flown away. Within seconds I heard it calling from a distance, with another responding from even farther away.
Only in winter are these woods quiet at night, with only the wind sighing on still nights or asserting its presence during a storm. Once spring arrives, however, one by one, the symphony begins, with each creature tuning its instrument for the overture. Like the landscape, there is balance and rhythm in its arrangement. Though the peepers have, by now, reached an almost deafening pitch, it’s still possible to hear the owls, and once the peepers have quieted down, other sounds will replace their trilling and blend right in with all the other sounds these woods, and the creatures that inhabit them, make once the stars come out.
I stood at the window awhile last night, listening to the owls, and heard several carrying on a conversation. If, like with so many other creatures, it’s mating season for them as well, then I was perhaps hearing a serenade of sorts, or maybe they were simply alerting each other to something moving in the shadows that would be suitable as a nocturnal meal. Not being fluent in the language of owls, I’ll never know. What I do know is that I never tire of hearing them.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.
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