Advancing Evening—Part 1

Our little homestead clearing in the woods sits in sort of a bowl, kind of like a four-sided hollow, surrounded by Shenandoah Valley ridges. The morning sun doesn't rise above the eastern ridge until about an hour after daybreak; later on, it dives below the western ridge about an hour before sunset. 

We usually partake of our outdoor tub bath in the evening, so I often watch the dusk creep in, as I steep in the hot water for an hour and more. As the sun dips below the western ridge behind me, I gaze at the shadow of that ridge slowly ascending the trees surrounding me. Arching over me is a quadruple-trunk sycamore tree that I feel is a sacred gift to gaze upon. Bark readily peels from sycamores, exposing an almost-white under bark on the upper portion of the trees. As the ridge's shadow steadily climbs the tree, the top pale branches—still in sunlight—beam out like a multiple-forked lighthouse. 

In spring the birds fill the air with their territorial songs, especially in the early mornings and at evening's dusk, as I sit here soaking. At sundown, it's as if they are singing with the express purpose of raising that ridge's shadow up the tree trunk. 

A raucous Carolina wren incessantly and loudly calls nearby, refusing to pause for a second, until I perform a poor job of imitating its song. He stops, probably stunned by my weird whistle, wondering who that badly song-handicapped bird is. In a few seconds he seems to regard the interruption as being of no consequence to his evening’s pronouncements, and he resumes his monotonous, ear-penetrating call. 

The air is saturated with many other avian songs—mourning doves, a cardinal, goldfinches, chickadees—none of them able to rival the loudness of the wren.

The ridge's shadow steadfastly climbs ever higher up the tree trunk, now leaving only the tip of the sycamore peeking into the sunlight. My attention gets diverted for a minute by a couple of feinting chickadees who are attempting to establish their territorial ownership, and when I look back upwards, even the tip of the tree is now in shadow. Gradually the light level continues to drop. It's a signal for the birds, one by one, to button up their beaks and settle down for the night. Dusk and stillness begin to fall across the land. 

The noisy wren is the last to finally stop singing—leaving me to bask in the darkening quiet. Every so often a barred owl emits a muted hoot, off in the deep woods. During the summer, the evening air’s acoustic space would now begin to be filled with insect songs, as they initiate their all-night chorus. But for now, it's a blessedly hushed twilight zone.

More Advancing Evening next time...