Last Song



As a boy I had the distinct pleasure of accompanying a local ornithologist on bird banding adventures where we would string fine nets across the marshes and forests of Charleston, SC. Sometimes a Grosbeak or a Sharpshin would punish my hands as I tried to free them, but it was always worth it to hold them for an instance, band and weigh their fragile bodies, and hope to see them and their brethren the next year.

Now as an adult and living in the big city of Atlanta, I wake up every morning to the intricate songs of birds that I can’t believe are able to navigate the incessant dangers of the modern world.

I cringe when I hear stories of southern hunters taking out hawks and owls because they prey on their precious quail and doves. Or watching a not-so-innocent house cat scope out my bird feeders.

Reading this article on migrating birds was the equivalent of waking up on one future morning and the air being filled with nothing but silence.

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