Amidst the regular
chatter of the birds outside are three, clear descending notes: a song so
smooth, so distinct, that it stands out from all the rest. After some online
sleuthing, we’ve deduced that our solo-singing feathered friend is a
white-throated sparrow. I haven’t spied him in the wild of the urban jungle
yet, but I look, every time I hear his song drift in through the open window.
In Lewis, I was
used to hearing the birds from the garden: the cuckoo, the corncrake, and the
stonechat. (Whenever you hear the cuckoo, my Granny used to say, rain isn’t far
away.) At home in the Outer Hebrides I take the natural world for granted,
whether that’s a seal in Stornoway harbour, an eagle above the Harris hills, or
a hedgehog outside the kitchen door in Point. It’s taken lockdown and
confinement in a 600-square foot apartment for me to learn to listen for the
birds and find some of that joy in nature here in the city.
When I lean out of
our living room window here to watch the birds, I see a pear blossom tree to my
left, and Manhattan to my right. From this vantage point, the city looks
unchanged. The skyscrapers still glint as the sun rises and sets; the lights of
apartment buildings still twinkle in the twilight, when we leave the curtains
open for as long as possible to admire the view |||READ
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