We Forget That We Know Better
Lessons on losing and love birds
Despite the buckets of rain pouring down this morning, the atypical Los Angeles winter chill we’ve suffered has broken and finally, it isn’t cold anymore. A bird in the distance chirps twice. Another, perhaps a few yards away, lets out a high-pitched vibrato. One calls out, then the other, and their cyclical exchange persists as the sun continues to rise. How am I hearing birds this early, through this heavy rain? I wonder if these two are friends, strangers, or lovers. I wonder if, when their singing stops, when the call and response ends, it’s because they’ve found each other through the rain and fog and can at last commence their love story.
Exhausted from a beautiful but sleepless night, I rise from the spot I’ve warmed on the floor near the window that looks out at the mountains, tiptoe into the kitchen, and make myself a cup of coffee. I know so little about various species of bird, their typical late-winter behavior or the meaning of their songs. Aside from the occasional Discovery Channel voiceover, I can’t recall learning much of anything about birds.
The sun is up now. The rain persists as my coffee cools. More birds awaken and bring with them more songs, more signatures, more distinct voices. I love birds; lots of people love birds, and I’m certain there are many who know all…
