The siren song of the woods is calling me, so I grab my trusty walking stick and take the short walk down to the marsh. The pungent, arid smell of fresh wood chips catches my nose, and then is quickly gone as I pass the pile waiting to be spread out over the trail. As I head further into the woods, the sounds of the neighborhood behind me quietly fade into the peaceful sounds of the forest.

Henry David Thoreau once stated “I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits unless I spend four hours a day at least — and it is commonly more than that — sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields absolutely free from all worldly engagements. But the walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours — as the swinging of dumb-bells or chairs; but is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day. If you would get exercise go in search of the springs of life.” Indeed, the act of walking fills me with joy and enthusiasm. As my shoes quietly caress the soft, needle-covered trail, I think again of how blessed I am to live so near to such a wild place, where I can come, daily if I wish, to unplug from my technological life and find again my place in the natural world.

I head for the tree that is my vantage point over Farrell’s Marsh. As I approach the spot, I see a female wood duck swimming near the shore. She takes off with a squeal and heads to the other end of the marsh as I climb my tree. As I gaze out over the marsh, I see that the dead husks of last winter have almost completely given way to tall, vibrantly green reeds. The air is warm and smells of fir, mud, and needles. I lean back against the tree trunk and try to blend into my surroundings. I have learned that I need to become a part of the forest before I can penetrate nature’s quiet veil, taking the time to patiently listen and wait. You can truly begin to see only when you have first listened for a long time. Once you become part of the picture, any changes in the picture immediately register to you.

The nesting season is now almost over and the birds are beginning to take more time off their duties to move about and sing. I watch a few red-winged blackbirds harass a pair of geese that apparently had gotten too close to their families. A common yellowthroat begins to sing from a hidden perch in the reeds, his which-is-it-which-is-it-which-is-it ringing over the waters. A pair of alarmed mallards takes to the air, circling the marsh with great quacks and touching down on the far end of the marsh. A Steller’s jay moves in the shrubs on the waterside quietly talking to himself. I hear a rustling in the underbrush below me and slowly look down to see a pair of industrious chickadees hopping from twig to twig, talking periodically to each other. The female wood duck returns to feed near me, shyly darting back to safe cover whenever I move or make any noise. I have no intention of hurting her, but she does not know that. I wonder if her babies are in hiding nearby, since I had seen a whole family of wood ducks just the previous day.

I descend the tree and find a good place to sit in the clearing just below it, in a fine stand of fir of hemlock trees. A chorus of birdsong fills the air, with robins and thrushes blending their voices together in one song. This is the evensong. The morningsong has a different quality to it than the eveningsong. The morningsong is fresh and powerful, while the evensong is quieter and more ethereal. This is especially true when the thrushes are participating in choir practice, just as they are tonight. The robins carol first to each other with their hearty, cheerful alto notes, and the thrushes follow one after another in the same key, but ending on the ringing, almost whispering note that so defines the thrush family. The air is filled with this blending choral anthem as I listen first to one voice, and then to another echoing the same tune far deeper in the forest. I listen also to the female wood duck which has returned and is feeding in the reeds near me, just barely out of my sight.

The song eventually dies down to two Swainson’s thrushes singing quite near to me. I am not quite sure if there are two thrushes, but I feel that there are because I hear subtle differences in the quality of the songs. One sings the song just as a Swainson’s thrush should, the escalating whistle followed by a long, ringing whispering high note. The other escalates up and begins the final note, but stops just short of completing it. I have no way of knowing this for sure, but it almost sounds like this is an older thrush, slowly losing her voice but still echoing the ringing call of the first thrush. I fix my eyes on a small sapling far away and soon see at least one of the thrushes hop to a higher limb, too far away to make out details but close enough for me to ascertain the location of the songsters. I continue to listen to the two thrushes sing back and forth to each other, first one, and then the other, each one encouraging the other to continue on.

I think of the way I often feel at the end of the day: tired, weary, and grumpy. Unlike me, the birds always take time to sing their own lullaby before going to sleep, pulling the covers up over the forests and fields as the sun turns out the light. I can sometimes hear notes of fatigue in their voice, and the chorus is weaker and more sporadic, but it is as joyful as ever. I need to end my day with the same quality of joy as the thrushes and robins. I need to end my day singing, knowing that even though I am weary and heavy laden with the cares of the day, My Creator has promised to take those burdens alongside me and give me rest. He has promised me perfect and complete peace and joy if I trust Him and allow His presence to fill me.

I stand up from my seat and the moment abruptly and completely ends. The two thrushes stop singing, and the wood duck again takes to the air with great squeals. I head away having troubled Mama Wood Duck enough. The song of thrushes follows me out of the marsh as I head home to a cup of hot coffee and my guitar, my own voice in this glorious evensong.