whistle like a flute

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After a long, long, long workday, an unexpected surprise welcomed me home. A rose-breasted grosbeak was at my feeder; late in the day when the sun and my energy level were on the wane, like a candle about to flicker out. (Let's hope they both rebound or tomorrow is going to be dreadful.)

The splendid grosbeaks and scarlet tanagers are in my woods for only a few days every spring; just passing through, ships in the night; on their way to their nesting grounds farther north. At times, their songs confuse me, but the tanager is oh so raspy, like a gravelly-voiced blues singer. The books say like a robin with a sore throat. Indeed.

The grosbeak's song is more pristine.

Thoreau had the same problem. His journal entry dated May 24, 1855: “Hear a rose-breasted grosbeak. At first thought it a tanager, but soon I perceived its more clear and instrumental—should say whistle, if one could whistle like a flute; a noble singer, reminding me also of a robin; clear, loud and flute-like; on the oaks, hillside south of Great Falls.”

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