Vol. 99, May 7th, 2024 Published a day early online
Sunday Evening
The train whistled in the distance, whistled again, lumbering up from North Carolina with a string of coal hoppers as empty as my pockets, the fuel burned in a power plant that drove parties and industry and the rush of an ordinary Yesterday. Now the coal was gone. The train rolled by with a squeal, and then it was gone, too. I walked down to the creek, thinking.
Tomorrow the miners will fill the trains. Tomorrow the trucks will roll, and the papers worked. But now, the land settled down into a deep quiet, as if the ripening hay knew what day of the week it was.
The first Wood Thrush of the year piped his sad, fluting song among the oaks, and the air hung thick and sweet over the emerald fescue. I watched the creek meet the mountain brook, clear water running down to the unseen lake. Sunday evening has a singular flavor, a confluence of What Might Have Been and What Will Be. Some folks call it the “Sunday Scaries”.
My phone rang, snapping me to earth. It was a bee pal, with greetings and advice on sorting out a trouble hive. People are great. How nice we can be there for each other. That goes for you, too.
Drop a line if you’d like to say hi, or tell a story of Sunday. (Joshurban@protonmail.com)
Northbound
Listen closely, and you might hear a Black-Throated Green Warbler singing on his northward migration in May.
A Prize for That
Alfred Nobel patents dynamite today, 1867. BOOM! (He’s the guy behind the prizes.)
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
We might think of a biddy as a fussbudget, but it’s also an Appalachian word for young chicken. (Sometimes they’re the same thing!)
Don’t get a biddy as an editor. They’re impossible to impress.
Quote of the Week
“Tones sound, and roar and storm about me until I have set them down in notes.”
–Ludwig van Beethoven
Song of the Week
“Symphony No. 9 in D minor” (Beethoven)
Today is the 200th birthday of one of the finest pieces of music ever composed. Crank up the jams!
Write to Us!
The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect, published weekly. You’re invited to write back, or just enjoy reading. Let’s have some fun! It’s a social paper! Send stories, etc to: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or Joshurban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #184)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: The Flying Circus Tour
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Like any good DJ, Mother Nature spins us some B sides and deep cuts every once in a while. Have you noticed the strange new birdsong yet? ‘Round about May, the trees play host to guest musicians for a few weeks. The springtime migration is in full swing, but please don’t clap. Snap your fingers, instead. This is cool, man. This is jazz.
The tiny birds are called warblers. (So is my Aunt Mary, but that’s another story involving the oft-maligned standard “Happy Birthday”.) We’ve got the Kentucky Derby to dress for, they’ve got spring. Boy are they fancy, decked out in brilliant yellow, orange, red, coal black, green, and blue feathers. Too good for us squares, they spend most of their time obscure in the treetops, searching for insects and calling in a high, buzzy...well, warble. John Coltrane’s saxophone work on the Live at the Village Vanguard experimental jazz album has nothing on ‘em. Charlie Parker might be nicknamed Yardbird, but these cats are in the trees.
What are they doing there? This is the kicker. They’re traveling to Canada.
From Mexico. Or farther south! These flying jewels spend the winter in Central or South America, migrate north to Canada, find a mate, raise their young, and then head south again. The Blackpoll Warbler flies 1,200 miles nonstop over the ocean during one leg of its journey. If you listen closely, you’ll hear him singing from a tree near you.
Maybe if we could translate his song into English, he’d be playing the bird version of “Turn the Page” or “Six Days on the Road.”
Poke your head outside, and see if you can catch any unusual sounds. Keep an ear out for songs with a buzzy quality. The Black-Throated Green Warbler (who comes up with these names?) has a distinct zee zee zee zoo zee pattern. He’s returning from Mexico, and might be close to journey’s end. Some nest high in the mountains here where it’s cool and shady. If you catch a glimpse of him, dig his yellow, green, and black plumage. He’s hoping a lady warbler will appreciate it, too.
We’re lucky we get to hear this brief and fascinating set every May. Soon they’ll move on, and the southbound fall migration brings drab colors and subdued birds. But in spring, as Fats Waller would say, the joint is jumpin’.
Enjoy the show!
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
Send letters and birdseed to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban