Songbird stories
- May 10
- 2 min read
As it’s springtime here, I’m wondering what the little birds are saying.
Science reckons they chat to each other. Here I am, I am me! Boasting about their beautiful trees and other assets, before proposing parenthood. Saying wotcha to their besties. Warning them about cats and blundergiants like me.
British folklore reckons they talk to us blundergiants. Songbirds are, superstition whispers, messengers for the dead, the devil, or their witch. They might be promising love and other riches, might augur imminent death. But, gosh, don't trust them. Yellowhammers are especially devilish. Robins and blackbirds are tricksters, while sparrows are tattletales. Wrens are fairies in disguise, who might just curse you.
Writers offer their own opinions. Birds sing of joy, laughter, and celebration. Solitude or strangeness. Innocence and open heartedness. They offer affirmations, recount migration adventures. Songbirds converse about flowers. They're teaching us poetry, to live in the moment, to embrace curiosity, and how to sing our truths.
When little birds sing nearby, I imagine we'll hear whatever we need to.
Most days, I want songbirds to be storytellers. When that robin wakes me, it is to describe every colour of dawn they can see from the top of their beautiful tree, and how to be lucky for the day. Goldfinches gossip about where old magic is hidden, and who’s been magicked. Great tits explain the nature of time. Blackbirds narrate epic romances in brief chapters, while starlings prefer speculative flash. Dunnocks spill naughty secrets. Wrens are satirists.
It seems to me they tell their stories without caring who hears. Even to the sky and salty breeze. Sharing for sharing’s sake.
In a month or so, their songs will end for another year (except for robin’s). Until then, I shall go on listening and wondering. Perhaps I’ll hear whatever stories I need. Wishing you a little birdsong too.
If you'd like to hear some of those I've mentioned, the RSPB can help.