A cold winter breeze whispers against my skin where I wait, under a star-spangled obsidian cloak. Diamonds in the night sky wink and twinkle, as far as the eye can see.
The birds sense it first, the coming of morning. In the distance, the flute-like, liquid gold song of the blackbird, mellow and melodious, a virtuoso heralding the approach of the new day.
I wrap my shawl closer around me, thin protection against the cold night air. It’s late winter, the nights are getting shorter. Spring is just around the corner, but it will be a while yet before its growing warmth is upon us.
The blackbird is soon joined by the powerful voice of the robin, whistling and trilling his upbeat song, the two birds in competition with one another but, at the same time, united in a joyful melody. I sigh with contentment, my spirits lifting further as the tiny Jenny wren adds her powerful warble to the avian ensemble, the volume of her song belying her diminutive size.
I could go back indoors now, but why miss the rest of the choir. One wouldn’t go to the theatre, only to leave after the musicians have warmed up. There is something so unique about nature’s symphony. I can almost imagine Mother Earth nodding her head in time to the musical arrangement.
The next voice in the chorus is that of the song thrush chaining melodious whistles, then grating and chattering; rinse and repeat. Repetition is his forte and his mimicry is sublime, especially when he introduces the cuckoos call to the morning chorus in the heart of winter. He’s soon joined by his cousin, the mistle thrush, his song more shrill, but with a dreamy, ethereal quality.
The sky is lighter now, a gentle gradient of midnight blue through to cerulean and the palest turquoise on the horizon, mingling with soft golden light as the sun sheds his glow upon distant skies.
The orchestra’s become a joyous cacophony, too hard to identify individual voices. And, finally, it’s accompanied by my heart, a tympanic beat welcoming the new day.