And the Small Bird Who Knew It First

Morning brought its own small announcement today.

Out on a branch of the Honey Locust tree just beyond the window, a Carolina Wren had taken up position and was delivering his familiar seven-note song — over and over and over again — with the bright confidence of a creature that believes the whole world ought to hear it.

And the remarkable thing is that the world usually does.

It never ceases to amaze how such a tiny bird can produce a voice large enough to fill the yard, echo across the nearby trees, and make itself known to anyone within reasonable listening distance.

The little fellow sang as though he were warming up for something important.

Spring, perhaps.

Somewhere in the quiet workings of the seasons, preparations are already underway. The light shifts a little. The ground softens. Birds begin testing their voices again.

And this particular wren seemed determined that nobody should overlook the moment.

There is probably a lesson hidden somewhere in all that — the old reminder that sometimes it takes only one voice to make a difference.

But that is a subject for another day.

This morning, the message felt simpler.

He was reminding me — It might be time to open the window.

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