The Last Word On Nothing

Squirrels are comforted by birds’ easy chit-chat, new research tells us. Biologists already knew the scurrying rodents tuned into birds’ alarm calls, but they didn’t realize that the mammals responded to songs about the good times, too. Content chirps suggest to squirrels that all is well. 

To me, too.

At this time of year especially I find that sounds tell a comforting story. Here at the edge of the woods, at my Virginia cabin, late summer stretches and layers the crickets’ songs and deepens the quiet. The breezes are still-warm, breathy farewells to August. Birds, less riotous at the feeder, are choosier with their calls but certainly not silent: While no longer desperate to mate, those that don’t migrate still have territory to claim.

Today a few singular voices are cutting through the crickets’ hum–though I’ll admit I confuse the bluejay’s and the red-shouldered hawk’s caws unless I hear them side by side. Somebody’s crisp piercing note rises above another’s cascading dribble. I don’t know who’s who; clearly, I need to work on my bird IDs. But September’s in progress, these voices tell me: Revel in this transitional world.

The ways smells tap into memory, the sounds of home, I find, go deep and loosen knots. 

We have one of those percolating coffee pots–this one handed down two generations now–that truly sputters, moans, and sighs. There is no better, kinder alarm. And the ceiling fan wobbles just a tad, calling attention to itself, promising with its slight rattle that warm days are still to come. (I like to say that winter is still just a whisper in another room.) 

At night, I am early to bed, he stays up late. I lie awake waiting for the whoosh through the pipes, the shower spray’s uneven battering of the tub floor as steam encircles tired shoulders. Then, the squeaky turning of knobs, the water’s silence, the rubbing of towel on skin. And soon, a distinct clack–the front-door lock engaging, thank goodness he remembered–then two snaps: bathroom goes dark, hallway goes dark. Ease. Another day has closed. Tomorrow might be grayer, cooler, the light at a new angle. That’s okay.

And the finale: The dog paws at the blankets at my feet, claws raking against fabric; he circles once, twice, then flops down, waits a beat, and exhales fully. That sigh settles my heartbeat every time.

Fall, of course, will bring its own music—the zip of jackets, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the crackle of fire. These are cliches, perhaps, but powerful just the same.

But this anteroom to fall–as birds settle down (to squirrels’ relief) and the first crumpled leaves meet now-brittle grass (you can hear them land if you really listen)–has its own subtle sounds, those of a dog-tired season beginning to let go.

Birds by Annatsach –  (Wikimedia commons)

Tree by Charles Patrick Ewing (Wikimedia commons)