Finally, a breeze in the tree tops brings the rustle of leaves rather than just the creak of branch rubbing on branch. The sound of the wind has changed now that the trees have leafed out.
Each spring there is a whirr that confuses me. Near by, something causes a particular soft, quick noise. Eventually, I see a hummingbird and realize that the sound is the super-fast movement of wings. Each year, I wonder why it took me so long to recognize the particular sound. As we head into summer this year, these tiny birds flit near me often, and always I am told of their presence by the sound of their wings before I see the flash of colour, their presence at the feeder.
When the snow is first gone, the first chirps of robins startle me. The whistles of redwinged blackbirds waken the hope that spring is on the way. As the season progresses, mornings become a musical chorus, with voices I am not good at sorting one from the other. The music feels merry.
This spring did not flow straight, however. Warm days were followed by cold spells, even some snow along the way. A few days, dawn was silent as winter while birds hid deep in shelter to keep warm.
All winter, there are some bird sounds. Blue jay and chickadee calls abound through the cold months. When there is snow on the ground, downy and hairy woodpeckers still hammer the trees seeking insects asleep under the bark. Mallards sounded the alarm when a fox came by in February.
Through the winter though, the sea gulls are silent. They soar along the shoreline. They scavenge enough to get by. But when the days lengthen and warm, suddenly their voices cut the air again. Harsh and grating as their calls are, I welcome them as a sign of the shift in season.
A few geese stayed all last winter, but the sight of a V in the sky and the sound of honking promised a change in the weather.
On the farm, I thought of winter as silent. Wind would howl through the boards of the barn, but the world was quiet. On the shore, there are a few silent days when there is no wind, but most of the time, there are waves. Sometimes we hear the gentle lapping of water on rock. Sometimes, it is a rolling sound. When the surf is powerful, rock grates against rock. There is a loud swoosh as water pounds the shore and retreats.
Three streams ran all winter within a kilometer of our house. As winter progressed, one became a trickle of falling water. Another, though ice spanned the spaces between rocks, the stream sang under the ice. A third never stopped gurgling as it fell toward the bay. When snow melted, these grew and were joined by three others and water sang in the ditches.
On the summer-like weekends, we got new human sounds: motorcycles raced by on one side of the house, seadoos on the other. The road keeps getting busier, with long parades of motorcycles, trailers, lots of cars. The voices of children rediscovering space outside the city have trilled on both sides of us. Motor boats have started to race by on the water side. So far, there have not been many chats with the summer residents, but these will come with properly distanced encounters from the kayak or across the road.
When I think of the progress of spring on the farm, I miss the spring peepers. Though there are marshy places on the inland side of the road, I have not heard the big voices of these tiny frogs. Now other sounds announce another change from spring to early summer. Bees hummed among the apple and lilac blossoms. I have caught the tiny voices of baby birds calling for food. I am assured that the growth and warmth of summer is upon us.
Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Georgian Bay
