Birdsong

     Last summer, when I had a few glorious weeks at home to finish sorting and packing, I took time almost every day to sit on the purple Adirondack chair that my brother made for me and soak in the sights and sounds of Vermont summer. I realized how much I loved the birdsong that I heard every day, how it changed from morning to afternoon to evening, and how it changed over the course of June and July and August. I would close my eyes and listen, thinking how much I would miss it.

      I couldn't remember ever hearing birds on any previous trip to Cambodia. Perhaps it was because on all our previous stays we were in a guest house on a busy road, surrounded by more buildings and traffic than trees. But here at our house, just blocks away, we have a yard full of fruit trees and the houses are further apart and the road is really just a dirt lane with very little traffic. And the birds are here. And they sing. And it changes from morning to afternoon to evening...

     I don't know the name of these birds; I have no Peterson's Field Guide to Southeast Asian Birds where I can look them up. There are small sparrow-like birds who swoop around in the morning, landing on the railing and picking up bugs and crumbs off the tiles on the balcony if I haven't swept well enough. They come in twos or threes, and they chirp in a generic though pleasant sort of way. There are some larger birds, perhaps the size of robins though more slender, with high-contrast yellow markings on their faces and white wing tips, and they sit in the fruit trees and call in a loud, complex melody. (I think these are Common Mynas though Sovann doesn't think so.) They're loud enough to wake me from a nap in the hammock in the afternoon. And in the evening, I hear large groups of some kind of unseen bird gathering in the trees further behind our house, all tweeting and chirping and chattering among themselves as they presumably settle in for the night.

     The bird song is occasionally punctuated by the call of small salamander-sized geckos who make a small "chirp chirp chirp" sound from the ceiling, or the even less frequent deep call of the larger geckos who call out, "To-Kay.....To-Kay....To-Kay..." from somewhere in the yard. And after the sun sets and the light is almost completely gone (which happens about 6:15 pm) I can see hundreds of giant fruit bats flying over the house on their way to wherever they go every night, and I sometimes imagine I can hear them making noise as well, though I'm not completely sure.

     I wish I had a good recording device so I could share the sound with you. Or better yet, I wish you would come and visit and listen with me.

Maybe I need this.