BY HARRY WEEKES
At some point in early April, I invariably say, “I can’t believe people are still asleep.” This comes as light starts to infuse my normal morning routine. For months, this routine has been completely in the dark, so this comment arrives shrouded with a kind of urgency that, suddenly, I am late for everything.
On one of these mornings, a convergence turned into recognizing an opportunity.
The first element of the convergence. At the end of my morning walk, I turn back to the valley below as a kind of punctuation. This entails taking in the view, a final series of deep breaths, and finding the Big Dipper in the sky. I look for Merak, the southeasternmost star, which is also our family star. Then I head inside.
The next element. Early April marks when it is increasingly hard to find Merak. As the great dark wave of night recedes the coming dawn starts hiding the stars.
The third element. The bulk of our birds return in the early Spring. Paraphrasing Robin Williams, “Spring is when nature says, it’s time to party!” And this year, with the low snow and warm temperatures, it appears the birds are back in force early.
The final piece of this comes with the arrival of Daylight Savings, which happened at the start of March.
Now, add all these together, and suddenly you find yourself a little after 6:00 a.m. with the sky light enough that you don’t feel strange being awake and the birds going absolutely bananas.
The opportunity is this: to take a moment, on any day, to go out at this time and just listen.
While I end my walk ten feet from my garage, I could just as easily only move those ten feet to experience the following.
The robins. The robins! They make their distinct calls, appropriately described as “cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up, cheerily.” Focus on them for five seconds and you realize this should be capitalized: “CHEER-UP, CHEERILY, CHEER-UP, CHEERILY!”
A strange, secretive buzzing comes from the junipers to my right. It sounds like a tiny bird snore, or a bird as discreetly as possible calling from the night. I wonder if it is one of the spotted towhees who are otherwise so loud in the day.
I hear the heavy and clear wing beats of flickers, their intermittent pulsing moving from the willows on the hill to the aspens by the house. In the semi-dark I can literally hear their undulating flight.
The Brewer’s sparrows lighten up the canyon, their melodious tunes as beautiful as the birds are camouflaged.
And somewhere up the hill, a bell sounds, like a sharp drop of water on a tin pan. It sounds like grouse.
All of this in a minute or less, with the final sound a rush of bird exploding from the trees near the garage door where it seems to be roosting. Or, was roosting.
Transient moments, in the day, in the seasons, in where each one of us lives or happens to find ourselves, bring beauty and wonder amplified by their very scarcity.
Getting up every single day in the liminal space between dark and dawn and actively tracking the goings on of the natural world would be fantastic. And probably impossible. But one morning? One first little step into what’s unfolding in the not-so-dark? Totally possible.
This time of year, the stars, sun, time change, and birds align, a natural caffeine for the senses. And if you happen to catch Merak twinkling its goodbye for the day, know at least one other person is out there with you.
Harry Weekes is the founder and head of school at The Sage School in Hailey. This is his 54th year in the Wood River Valley, where he lives with Hilary and their two mini-Dachshunds. The baby members of their flock have now become adults; Georgia and Simon are fledging in North Carolina, and Penelope has recently changed roosting sites to Connecticut.
