Over the last weeks, there has been a noticeable decrescendo of the songbird chorus that surrounds us. I can remember being mildly perturbed at the early morning racket when I first moved to the farm. Now, I’m a bit wistful when they take flight for the winter. Today I’m thinking of Robert Frost’s poem, “A Minor Bird”

I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course, there must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song.