Singing in the rain

Many mornings of the past few weeks have been as dreary as February weather. Oh, often in the afternoon we get a glimpse of the sun or the moon but it’s been mostly umbrella weather for weeks. You’d think folks would be grumbling more than they do, wouldn’t you? Of course, most of us find it a challenge to stay in a grumpy mood when all that rain is setting the stage for the spring concert.

When I looked out last week on the brook, I was pleased to see six drake mallards dabbling in the pools. Raindrops were dappling the surface of the water all around them. As they dabbled, they jabbered, as if they were mumbling, “Yum, yum, yum!” over their snails. As, up until then, when there were ducks in the brook, they were Mr. and Mrs. Mallard, it was logical to suppose all the Mrs. Mallards were sitting on their eggs. The quacking of ducks is not the most tuneful song in the spring concert but the gabbling of those drakes was like a chant to my ears. The rhythm promises that there will soon be ducklings, fluffy pompoms running on the water with their new webbed feet. They seem to arrive about the same time as the apple blossoms.

The flash of red wing patches, contrasting vividly with coal black feathers, accompanies the redwing blackbirds. They click and whir as they brag from branch to branch and cattail blade to blade. Strident in accompaniment to their antics, there is nothing shy about them. They are bold and frenetic in their bid for attention. Rain doesn’t seem to dampen their enthusiasm at all.

A choking stutter, like a cold motor grinding in a vain effort to churn into action, gives away the presence of a less frequently seen bird. I rarely get a glimpse of a kingfisher. They dart up and down the brook like lightning. In the rain, their feathers are drab and grey; in the sun, they wink blue and white. If you aim your eyes at the sound, you can often catch sight of a kingfisher arrowing low above the water or playing hide-and-seek in the branches, even when it is chilly and wet.

“Tweet, tweet!” Cardinals are the only birds I know of that really sing that way, loud and sweet. There are other notes in their arias and they peal their few arpeggios with gusto, though catching sight of them is not an everyday thing unless one happens to prefer a particular bird feeder. You can sometimes hear them singing in the rain, too.

Robins are the opera singers. When you hear trills in soaring scales, high and pure, you know the divas of the spring concert are present. They spill out their joy in ecstatic melodies. Would spring really happen without robins to sing in the blossoms?

I do keep wondering, though, when I’m ever going to have a bluebird on my windowsill and a rainbow in my sky?