The hermit thrush alone is a good reason to live in Vermont. All by himself, this little brown bird with the speckled breast makes up for the cold, dark winters, the messy mud seasons, and the spotty wi-fi coverage.
He comes by his name honestly. He declines to visit feeders, but stays hidden in the woods where, during the nesting season, he decants a pure, cool, silvery rill of sound. I live too much in my head to notice a lot of what Nature, like a street vendor setting out her wares, puts out for my delight. I can pass a lilac in full splendor with barely a glance, but the song of the hermit thrush stops me in my tracks. When he sings, I have to stand and hear him to the end, or I would feel like I was walking out in the middle of a recital.
Although he shies from applause, there is nothing timid or self deprecating about his performance: he sings with the aplomb of a seasoned performer. I wonder what a young hermit’s first song is like–is the timing off, are there false notes, or does it emerge from him as faultless and elegant as that of his father in his prime? As I have never heard a thrush miss a note, I suspect that they are all born musical prodigies.
This has been a good summer for hermits. The thrushes sing late into the morning, take a short break, and resume well before the sun goes down. The virus-imposed stillness in my life has made it easier for me to pay attention. At sunrise and sunset I come out of my own hermitage and listen to the invisible singer pour out his melody from the shelter of the woods.
Whenever I hear the thrush, my grasping, non-Zen self immediately pleads “don’t stop. Keep going. Encore!” And I waste the last clear perfect notes thinking that the solstice is already behind us, and all too soon he will head south, and the woods will return to silence. But isn’t the very fact that he’s not around all year, that he shuns my feeders, that he stays hidden in his woodland cloister what makes him so precious? If I heard him in all seasons, would I still listen?
From all indications, the coming winter will be an especially dark one. Like the chipmunks, I will retreat from porch and yard and go to earth in my cottage, to sleep and snack and endure as best I can. I will be grateful for every cheeping titmouse and chickadee that visits my feeder while I await the little brown singer’s return. I will think of him scratching for insects in the leaf litter of some southern wood, but saving his song for the love season in Vermont, and for his fellow hermit, me.
8 Responses
I love hermit thrushes. And wood thrushes. And veerys. As I've probably told you before, one of my biggest fears upon moving to Vermont was that veerys were just out range…but they are HERE! This year, for the first time, Tim and I heard a Swainson's thrush (didn't make eye contact) up at Okemo. (And I do believe I've heard a young thrush or two attempting to get it right.)
Do you know the Amy Beach piano pieces based on the hermit and wood thrush songs?
I believe I *HAVE* heard them. Maybe you were the one who told me about them?
I probably did. I find them pretty miraculous.
I'm not sure I know the difference between the wood and hermit thrush songs. When in the woods I've heard the sound of what sounds like an orchestra tuning up. I always thought that was the wood thrush, but maybe it is a hermit. I had a hermit thrush at my bird bath a couple of years ago.
I will leave it to you and Indigo to figure out the differences between wood, hermit and Swainson's thrushes, and veerys. To me they all sound like theharmony of the spheres.
That's such a beautiful post. I had to go off and find audio of the song. Beautiful. And yes, his rarity makes it so much more enchanting.
Thinking about thrushes in the depths of (our) winter makes me long for spring.