On the street adjacent to mine are two northern mockingbirds. I assume they’re an item, but they haven’t officially let me in on their business. Each morning, when I walk my dog, one of them flies from their nest and perches itself on the highest branch of a young linden tree. “Look at me,” it says, cleverly sounding like the scarlet tanager I heard from my balcony all last summer but never saw.
This evening, Maurice and I went out later than usual – the sun was setting so that all the trees were like etched lines against the sky. The birds sang their evening songs, and I found myself standing and staring up, up, up into an old white oak, looking for the birds that were singing within those darkened branches.
It was no use, of course, using my eyes. I had to trust that I knew the song they sang by heart, having heard it all my life. There’s no mistaking the robin singing in springtime, cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up
(unless it’s a mockingbird, of course).
No Accounting for Happiness 