Lately, I’ve been waking up often “with the birds,” as my mother used to call it, and it’s a treat to lie there listening to the world awaken around me. No matter where I’ve lived, even when the sounds of traffic have intruded, I’ve been able to hear something, some small, plaintive chirp from the distance, that tells me it’s time to get up, at least from the avian viewpoint.

The experience is, of course, particularly enriching when one lives in or near the woods. Even near a main road, thick stands of trees create a sound-proofing barrier that may not completely silence those unwanted noises but does muffle them so that other more appealing sounds can be heard. And as anyone who loves birds and who pays attention to them can attest, some are much more assertive than others in their language and their calls, such as the blue jay and any of the many woodpeckers that are native to this area.

It’s also surprising how much noise can issue from even the smallest of birds. Just the other day, I had the screen in the storm door part-way open and kept hearing the most insistent of songs coming from the deck. When I got up to look, I saw that this loud relentless singing was coming from what I believe was a palm warbler, a small bird with a rusty cap and a habit of wagging its tail feathers up and down. While I’ve pretty much stopped putting seed out now, I do leave a suet cake hanging from the porch railing, and this little warbler was foraging among the droppings from the cake that the larger woodpeckers had dislodged. There it was, in all its tiny glory, singing its little heart out, so I backed away from the door to give it its space, once again happy that I’ve been able to provide this oasis of safety and sustenance for more than a few birds.

On mornings like these, when I wake up early, and feel the day’s urgency too strongly to allow myself to turn over and go back to sleep, there is an imperative to be fully in the moment and cognizant, for those are the times when I’ve seen and heard the most wonderful things. On gray, misty mornings, such as it was when I wrote this piece, there’s a particular hush over everything, and it is oddly on such days that I experience the most striking sightings.

On a similar morning last week, I looked up from my writing just in time to see a hawk alight on a branch less than 50 feet away from my window. I’m never sure about hawks, so I prefer not to state what I only think they are, but I do at least know what family it came from if not its actual surname. This one didn’t hang around long ”“ hawks rarely do, particularly when this close to a building and to humanity. But it was a real gift to watch it lift off, spread its great wings and soar across the pond toward the trees on a farther shore.

And even if I don’t get up right away, it’s still quite pleasant to lie there and listen as the natural world awakens and the sounds of the more familiar and well-known birds reach me. The crows, redwing blackbirds, woodpeckers and nuthatches don’t seem to need much sleep themselves, as I hear them late into the day and at first light of dawn. Titmice, chickadees, robins and warblers of all kinds ply the morning air with their joyful songs, while the mourning doves interject their calming influence. And if I’m lucky, when I do finally get up, I’ll catch a glimpse first thing of the kingfishers diving down into the pond in search of breakfast, their motions as sure and as well-executed as those of any Olympic diver.

If I’m particularly blessed, the day ends much as it began, with the sounds and sights of the natural world the last things I experience before I drift off to sleep. Each day comes full circle, ending where it began, in the shadowy, still recesses of nature’s vast storehouse, where she divides her best between the beginnings and endings of our days.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at [email protected].