Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word
Eleanor Farjeon, Morning Has Broken
It’s pre-dawn, the time when advance columns of light leaking over the horizon from a still unrisen sun do battle with the night’s shadow. There is just enough light to see larger shapes and vague hints of what the coming day may bring, but not enough to reveal detail; just enough light to reveal a heavy mist rising over the line of trees behind our downhill neighbor’s house – a sinuous mist tracing and revealing the curves of the river hidden below the bluff screened from view by the tree line.
It’s too soon to know if the sky will be overcast, for color is not yet manifest. But given the forecast, I’d guess that gray interspersed with blue will be the order of the day. So far, the day is far from gray in aspect, for birdsong is everywhere this morning – as it is every April morning – providing plenty of aural color.  April is a time of northern migration for many bird species, and as the transients pass through the Farm they join with the residents in choruses of call and response, of “this is mine and not yours.”  And on each April morning, rain or shine, the transients join with the residents in the morning’s choral entreaty to the coming light, join in hymns of hopeful praise to the rising sun, seeking a blessing upon their journey even as the residents seek blessings upon our fields and trees.
And as soon as the sun rises, the chorus suddenly stops as fact once again conquers dream, as it must on each new morning.
Some of the transient species may stay here on the Farm; most will move on. Not many of those that summer over on the Farm have yet arrived: the robins already have a strong, entrenched presence; it is too soon for goldfinches.  The Farm’s year round residents seem not to care about the transients as long as they stay away from our feeders – or should I say ‘their feeders’. The year round residents are known intimately to us because of the feeders; the transients are made known by their songs and an occasional glimpse.
The birdsâ paean to morning has ceased now. The sun is up. The sky is more gray than blue, but there is plenty of blue to be seen.  The daylight is strong and clear; not watery or weak. A V-shaped skein of geese has just flown north, honking as they passed. A small in-migrating flock of crows can be seen investigating the tops of firs for secure places from which to trade corvid insults with the resident Stellar Jays.
Itâs a good day in Humptulips County, a day full of promise. Could any day that is announced with such a glorious chorale, with so much praise, be otherwise?
