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phoebe. The little grayishbrown bird is a constant complainer. His plaintive, melancholy pee-a-wee, is part of Virginia summers when days are hot and still. The pewee’s whine drifts down from great elms and oaks and seems to say, “It’s so hot.”
I listen carefully when a summer day is windless, oppressive and the sky in the west is the color of a grackle’s wing. The pewee will drop the last syllable and only sing, peea, pee-a in a long, drawn-out lamentation. This is the flycatcher’s way of predicting a thunder storm. I suppose the bird senses some change in the barometric pressure. I learned of how the pewee predicts a storm from my father in North Carolina many years ago. Now I always listen for a change in the pewee’s lament. Rarely has a storm failed to follow.
The kingbird — Eastern Kingbird in the books — is a testy, prickly bird, always ready for a fight. The full fam
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