This is the time of year I always think of them, the starlings, in mid-February, when the noticeably lengthening daylight holds such promises. But when the weather delivers me daily doses of winter, I remember only the frigid air.
Up in my airy office on the second floor, I can witness through generous windows the lack of most life through the biting unwarm winter. While painting at my easel, I have an owl's view of feathered friends flitting among the branches of the dormant lilac bushes and water maples, scrimping out a living.
As I gather wood outside for the fireplace, my eyebrows are frost nipped, my body with uncontrolled shivering, and through watered eyes, I observe the four young blue jays carry on the tradition of their parents. I have unintentionally provided the compost bin with leftover fruits and vegetables as a bird feeder in the back yard. It is amusing watching the jays' acrobatics. The games the birds provide has delayed my unease I should have over the probability these jays will teach their offspring about the free food source in the yard.
I dump the wood into the second floor fireplace and return to the kitchen for a steaming mug of hot cocoa. While warming my hands around the mug and sipping the sweet beverage, I hear two different taps on my kitchen bay window. Several chickadees were sitting on the Japanese willow bush. One by one a bird would peck or tap with its feet on the glass pane. At first I was puzzled, and then I wondered if the bird feeder was empty.
I looked out the window at the feeder. It was empty. My flock of 33 mourning doves calmly sat on the upper plank of the fence waiting for their food supply.
I sighed and was reluctant to go outside so soon. But as soon as I filled up the feeder and stepped inside my kitchen, the chickadees flew to the lilac bushes, then to the feeder.
My own assurance of the continuation of life during the frozen months was not in evidence during this winter. I am skeptical, embarking on a new venture to teach myself to paint birds, and my hope of expanding my sales of my landscapes, and making a part-time living at both. The intricate detail of bird feathers was harder than my bluegrass landscapes. As thrilling as the idea being my own boss may be, I am not used to the long hours spent alone. I cancelled several outings with my friends to paint. Since winter seems to continue in endless days, I was starting to feel the daytime isolation acutely. Normally I spend most of my time outdoors at work and after hours. The struggle to master the details of the feathers and color had me sequestered, alone in the house for weeks during the day, and from the comfort of my own species.
My isolation was compounded by the darkness of this particular winter. The clouds rolled in about mid-October, and in February they were still unwelcome guests. My many houseplants and new tomato seedlings suffered from lack of sunshine. Their outward forlorn appearance echoed how I felt inwardly.
Then one afternoon at sunset, the clouds suddenly parted, a pink effervesce lit up bare branches, and flowed to the Bluegrass hills that surround my house. I was entangled with working on the details of the feathers of a male Carolina wren, from the photograph I took of the bird that stayed near my house every growing season. And I might have missed the luminous light show, except for the tinkling of a loosely associated sort of music that came from outside my office window. While looking out the window I tried to locate the sound. About two-dozen starlings studded the uppermost branches of the old water maple in the front yard. They were singing their rusty unmelodic melody as they faced the last direct rays of the sun. Their feathers ruffled to trap surviving fragments of imagined heat from the sun. The sight of their animated bodies against the hills, which was awash with a winter glow, filled me with euphoria.
The mourning doves normally sing their "ooahoo" from the eaves of my house or on the upper plank of the fence. I have become well versed on dove behavior and vocalizations. The broadcast of their silken cooings were usually a constant companion to my outdoor activities. But this winter even they have been silent for weeks.
The next gray day passed as the day before. Again the sky became empty of clouds briefly before sunset. Once more the brown-black, speckled with gold and white-bodied choir sat poised in the old maple branches singing their ragged serenade.
The days were still arctic to me, but they get sunnier by increments. After a few days I grew to eagerly to expect my minutes of live concert each afternoon, as the same flock appeared in the treetop. They created a running stream of squeals and squawks as they tried to soak up the last rays of sunlight. They seem to me to understand my confinement, and sought a fellow outcast with whom to share the only gift they have to offer.
These starlings were unwelcome imports, but are endemic to the many farms in the area. Dark clouds of them could be seen wheeling in perfect unison anywhere a barn was planted on the land.
These transplants picked my tree to wait out the winter. Every day opening the window a crack, then waiting and listening for the starlings became a part of my routine. One day before the starlings were due to sing, I heard a herring gull calling close by. The sound was not unusual since I was living near a large pond. Then from the same location other birds calls began to drift inside my office, a long descending "caaaw" of a crow, a harsh "jaay, jaay" of a blue jay, and a series of repeated "whoit, whoit, whoit, cheer, cheer, cheer" from a cardinal.
When I heard a bad rendition of a Carolina Wren's loud three-part phrase like "tea kettle, tea kettle, tea kettle" and a harsh descending "teeer" song, I grabbed my coat and headed outside. The only birds in sight were the group of starlings. Then I realized these birds were a mimic of a sort. Today they were showing off their repertoire. After this day the starlings often mimicked other birds, which left me to wonder as to what birds actually were outside.
Harmony and comedy uttered from the least-liked birds gave me companionship this winter. Soon with the return of spring, I resume my part-time greenhouse job and the sounds of human friends. I relish the thoughts of warmer, gentle days. Too soon winter reoccurs, and then I spend long hours shut up in my office.
Next winter I look forward to my avian choir that chose to sing the sun to sleep each evening in the old water maple, a simple gift that brightened my life of a struggling painterÖand for a brief time, the sounds of starlings became a new form of music for me.