Each summer, the day when the birds stop singing comes too quickly for my taste. It's not that they stop entirely. I am still hearing the swallows at this moment, amid the roar of the concrete trucks (pouring our walls), and I did hear a spotted towhee yesterday morning. It's just that I feel a little sad when the luxurious and rich orchestra of morning bird dawn chorus becomes a lonely, quiet solo.
I guess it is truly the turning of the seasons. It means the singers have found their mates and have hunkered down to hatch some eggs. They're now in a lovely family way. I suppose I should feel happy for them. And now we can try to hear the juveniles drive their bird parents crazy with constant requests for feeding, like their human, teenaged counterparts. It means we are moving closer to tomato harvest time, and this year, closer to a roof being on our new house. But wistful I remain, over the loss of beauty in the early morning. I look forward to it each year, and it always seems to fly by too fast. Especially the end of the merry, melodic black-headed grosbeak soliloquies. *sigh*