When we
lived in Pennsylvania, for a time we had a resident mockingbird. I don't know that I ever saw it (or would
recognize it if I did), but one year it decided to serenade us regularly at
midnight, just as we were trying to fall asleep. Like clockwork, it would start its repertory
and run through a series of different calls, clearly and precisely, repeating
each one twice—no more, no less. I think
I actually counted them, and went though about eighteen before he started over.
I was
reminded of this when earlier this week I was awakened before six a.m. by some
other brave "early bird" (sorry, I couldn't resist). No, it wasn't a mockingbird. I have no idea what it was. I apologize for my great ignorance to all
dedicated birders out there who are reading this. Anyway, as I listened to this morning mystery
bird, I found myself thinking, how would I describe that on paper?
Which of
course led me to think of David Allen Sibley's Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America. I have a copy that I
keep on my kitchen table, next to the window from which I can see my two
birdfeeders. I live close to the center
of a small town, and my lot is small (and there are a number of neighborhood
cats that roam freely), so the birds that appear are few in variety. There's an extended family of cardinals that
live nearby and visit regularly for the sunflower seeds I put out. There are the ubiquitous sparrows. In the spring I see the occasional cedar
waxwing. This week I waved to a passing
goldfinch, but they're rare here. In short,
nothing particularly extraordinary visits, but I do enjoy watching whatever
appears.
But to get
back to the point, I love reading Sibley's book because he makes a valiant
attempt to transliterate (is that the word I want?) the calls of each and every
bird. And the results crack me up.
Who knew
that the golden eagle makes high yelping calls, while the bald eagle (we do
have a nesting pair not far from here, the location of their nest carefully not
made public) makes weak, flat chirping whistles? The Great Horned Owl (which I did hear
occasionally back in Pennsylvania, although I never saw one) makes "a deep muffled hooting in
rhythmic series ho hoo hoo hoododo hooooo
hoo." The courting female is said to respond with a "nasal
barking guwaay." (Did Sibley
notice that looks a lot like "go away"?)
Open the
book to any random page and you find all sorts of entertaining
descriptions. Take, for example, the
Dickcissel (I don't know that I've ever met one, although Sibley tells me they
like to hang out with House Sparrows, and I have plenty of them). Here's how a Dickcissel sounds, per
Sibley: "song a series of short
notes skee-dlees chis chis chis with
dry, insect-like quality. Call a dry
husky chek. Flight call a distinctive,
low, electric buzz fpppt."
You have to
admire the man, who must have spent untold hours just listening, and then
trying to capture the sounds in writing, making each one distinct. There's a lesson somewhere in here for
writers. If you're describing your
protagonist sitting outside on a nice summer morning with a cup of coffee, do
you write "she could hear birds chirping," or do you say something
like, "she could pick out the hard sharp tik tik of the cardinals gathered at her bird feeder"? It
makes a difference.
2 comments:
I love the Sibley bird guides. They're the best available, IMHO. Cornell's Laboratory of Ornithology has a vast collection of recorded bird calls and songs that help identify birds you've heard but not seen.
As the climate changes, we are seeing more and more birds outside their natural ranges, so those of us who pay attention to the wildlife around us may encounter birds we thought we'd never see.
In one of Elswyth Thane's Williamsburg novels, the first scene had the character waking up to bird song, including "the liquid q q q of the cardinal." I still think of that line every time I hear a cardinal.
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