Symphony of the Summer Solstice

As the favourite song sparrow nests, a symphony of the summer solstice competes to win her place in the woods. The insistent tsee-tsee-tsee-trill of the golden-crowned kinglet leads the band with his sharp bright staccatos often overshadowing the other musicians, thus rarely a fan favourite.

The nuthatch is also too keen to be heard, drilling his pulsating gritty percussion with a vengeance. His desire to outshine the king results in more noise than song. How he made it through auditions, no one knows. Perhaps the Mystro had a debt to pay.

The Swainson thrush chimes as expected every four beats. She is a favourite of the Mystro because her timing is impeccable and her sweet five note tweet is sublime.

The winter wren is designated first chair because she carries the melody, earning her spot with a heart-lifting song that flutes in and out of the cacophony like a gentle breeze. She does not force her song upon the audience like the kinglet or the nuthatch, instead releases it freely like a lover’s kiss.

As the band plays on, the body of the choir hums gently behind, blending the soft voices of the brown creeper, the warbler, the vireo, and the chickadee beautifully. It would be a perfect mix of sounds if not for the blue jay tenor. He is an arrogant soul chiming loud and proud over the others when it suits him. Many covet his beauty and that is likely how he made the cut, but not one covets his voice.

The robin sits back waiting for his shining moment. He counts himself in then adds his joyful bubbly notes for three short measures. His part is brief but leaves everyone smiling. His song is cherished like an old family melody sung in the morning sun.

The piece is nearly complete. The Mystro nods but the loon’s timing is her own. She is a true artist so we all wait for her with bated breath. The symphony repeats the verses over and over until she decides it is time for it to end. She releases her mournful cry much like the moan of a trombone resonating far and long across the water. It pierces our souls and all other birds are forgotten.