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On a recent overcast morning, I heard the sweet, pensive song of a white-throated sparrow.
The four notes hung in the air and turned a gray day into gold. The first, slightly melancholy low note was followed by three on a higher key that carried a serene optimism. There was hope in the song of the little brown bird.
I don’t know why the bird was singing a spring song in January. Was it a practice session for the coming spring, when the song will announce dominion over some opening in a New England spruce forest?
From what perch was the bird singing this simple song? I half hoped, half knew the clear whistled notes came from my brush pile, only a few yards from the bird feeder and the kitchen door.
This pile of small branches and twigs would be considered by some to be unsightly. Juncos and white-throats regard the pile — now 3 feet high and at least 5 feet across its base — as a refuge.
When I return from an errand and drive into the parking area behind the house, the wintering finches flee from the bird feeder to the safety of the dense, tangled interior of the brush pile. They do the same when I go out the back door. To the birds, I fall into the category of a large predator.
A sharp-shinned hawk landed in the red maple tree last week. Juncos, whitethroats and Carolina wrens fled to the safety of the pile of brush. There they were safe.
I enjoy thinking that the white-throat population in the yard has increased in direct proportion to the growth of the refuge I have created in the yard that had its origin in laziness. As I gathered branches
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