A good friend of mine said this morning that she prefers not to open her windows because the sound of birdsong drives her "absolutely insane." I love listening to birds sing. The sound reminds me of home, of growing up in a rural area, of air free from smog and peacefulness unbroken by the thumping bass emanating from a teenager's car or the raucous, often drunken laughter coming from the too-close neighbor's summer party. It's funny that my friend mentioned her dislike for birdsong today, as yesterday I wrote my 100 words on how much I've always enjoyed listening to birds:
The birds are active this morning, chatting and chirping outside my window as I type, and they remind me of growing up in Michigan, especially the summers, and how I would often wake up early, then stay in my bed reading for hours, listening as the birds called to one another, background music to the story that unfolded in my book and in my mind. My heart is happy to hear these birds today, as I live in a large city now, where nature is so often drowned out by sirens, by airplanes, by traffic, by music blasting from cars.
*John Burroughs, US essayist and naturalist
