The swallows are gone. The other day they swooped around my head in the barn, chirped their presence to me and to each other. But now the barn is quiet. The wires are empty. The swallows left. I did not see them go.

When the brown-headed cowbirds were ready to leave, they announced their intention. A cloud of them gathered in the trees of the swamp, rose and swirled and settled again. When they roosted, the rustling of wings and branches told of their presence. Then, the whole cloud rose, raced across the marsh, by the house windows. The whoosh of their wings and their calls to each other could not be ignored. They told each other and us that they were ready to leave. Then, they were gone. The swamp trees are empty again.

Geese are even louder. Honking as one, flying in a V, they tell all they are a flock on the move. Even if they fly a ways north to feed on the remains of a harvested grain field, they tell us they are ready to escape winter.

I have seen some baby turkeys lately, small followers on twitching legs racing to keep up. It is a good thing they are not leaving before snow. They'd not get far. I wonder about this late hatching, but perhaps harvest is a season when their food is most plentiful, when they will quickly grow strong enough to outrun fox and coyote.

Hummingbirds are still here. My comfrey is blooming again and in this wet year the deep throated yellow jewelweed is everywhere. A feast remains, for now. Cold will kill back these flowers, and the hummingbirds will depart. I will miss the whirr of their wings when it is warm enough to sit on the deck.

A family of vultures circles the patch of trees in the pasture. They rise high, black v's moving on currents of wind I cannot see. They are smelling for food. They will find a poor creature killed by a car. Fortunately, they have not found the leftovers of coyotes on our land this year. And soon this cleanup crew will head south, away from the blanket of snow that will cover what would sustain them.

I hear the caws of blue jays, see the flash of colour as they flit between trees. They will remain all winter, and I will feed them so that near the house there will be swatches of blue in the white world. The cardinals will reappear then as well, bringing their brightness out of hiding.

The cheerful chirp of chickadees tells me that sunflowers have ripened. For a month or two, the tall stalks with their heavy heads will feed these birds. Then, they too will take what the feeders offer.

The mocking bird will go. The song of wren and warblers will be someone else's music. The summer symphony of bird song will go on tour, leaving silence here.

I am thankful for those who will keep us company through the long cold snowy winter months. But even in the silent days, my ears will long for the missing music. And as warmth returns to the sun, my ears will strain as I await the trill of the redwinged blackbird. Soon after the brazen honk of geese will announce spring's return.
Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister, and writer living near Walters Falls.