The quiet time

Quiet. That's the first thing you notice when you walk into my yard these days.

The last of the winter birds, the Cedar Waxwings, are finally gone. I saw a small flock of the birds on Memorial Day, but I haven't seen any since then.

Spring migration is basically over. No more new voices being heard in the yard every day.

The first wave of fledglings from this spring are now pretty much "weaned" and on their own. Many of them come to the feeders on their own now, but they don't sing or make any noise. They don't usually beg for food from their parents any more.

And the parents themselves are either resting up and recovering from their labors of constantly caring for their young ones for weeks, or, in some cases, they are gearing up to raise another family, but they don't find much time for singing.

Birds still greet the sun in the morning, of course, as they have no doubt done from time immemorial. Their ancestor dinosaurs probably croaked and roared their greeting as well.

And in the late afternoon, after the sun has dropped below the treeline, the southern breeze picks up, and it becomes pleasant to sit on the patio, I can hear robins, cardinals, wrens, and especially Mourning Doves, as they settle down for the night. I particularly love the peaceful sound of those doves in the twilight.

But during most hours of the day now, except for the occasional noisy Blue Jay, the birds go about their activities silently. It is the quiet time of year in the bird calendar.